#Constance hatch away Tumblr posts

[selenadrawsstuff]

Been working on some more Haunted Mansion sketches! I’m super excited to share everything with you all! Also, I’ll be going out Tuesday to pick up my pet hamster!! Yayy! I’m gonna name him Colossus like the mummy hamster from “Frankenweenie”!

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Queen of the Fairies

All children love fairies. Who among us does not have memories of springtime afternoons with Nurse in the gardens, watching those tiny, human-like forms flitting through the world on their delicate wings, who seem to be clad in the very blossoms among which they live?

Yet most of us, as we age, forget about the fairies. We rush past gardens and flower boxes with barely a glance for the blooms themselves, much less for the delicate creatures that hide so carefully among them. If we think about them at all, they are part of the hazy, distant memories of long-ago childhood, not a vital part of the landscape that supports every facet of our daily lives.

But there is one woman who did not forget. Who never did forget, in her eight-and-four-score years of life, despite a scientific world that laughed her to scorn. As I, with all of England, mourn the passing of this inestimable woman--beloved author, illustrator, and (at last) honored naturalist, I can think of no better way to honor Constance Sommers than to recall my childhood meeting with her in the summer of my seventh year.

I had always loved watching the fairies in the window boxes outside my family’s London home. In 1892, I visited my grandparents in the countryside, and a new world opened up to me, filled with more flowers—and more types of fairies—than I could have imagined. I spent every waking moment in my grandmother’s gardens. I watched fairies hatch from the hearts of blooming tulips, scatter thousands of dandelion seeds, and endlessly paint the delicate shades of apple blossoms.

My favorite place, however, was my grandmother’s rose garden. There I found fairies whose forms matched every species of rose to a shade—save one. The crowning jewel of my grandmother’s garden was a rose she had bred herself; its white blossoms, as large as my hand, were streaked with red, and its scent was like a thousand fresh-plucked fruits. I knew that such a flower could only be tended by the grandest and most beautiful of fairies, and I watched, breathless, week after week for this hypothetical fairy to show her face.

At last, on a morning when my quest left me restless with anxiety, I tiptoed out of my room and slipped out to the rose garden in the gray light of dawn. As soon as I reached the prized rose bush, I saw fairy even more beautiful than I had imagined. Every bit of her form, from her face to her tiny fingers and toes, was pure white, with only the faintest green specks in her gray eyes. One of grandmother's red-and-white blossoms seemed to splay from her waist like a dancer's skirt, and her wings were so transparent that in that dim light, she appeared to have none, and instead seemed to float upon the delicate breath of the dawn.

At first, I stood awestruck—this was truly a queen among fairies. Then I recalled—I couldn’t let her slip out of my grasp. In a twinkling, I caught her in a glass jar, with one of my grandmother's roses tucked safely inside to serve as shelter and food.

How I rejoiced in that treasure! I brought the fairy to my room and marveled at her graceful fluttering until breakfast time, when I slipped away to the kitchen to eat with Nurse. By the time I returned, the beautiful little fairy was splayed, lifeless, across the base of the jar.

I wept myself breathless, completely inconsolable. Nurse offered comfort and threatened punishment, but she could not quiet me. At last, my sobs drew Grandmother, who took one look at that lovely little fairy and said, "I suppose there's nothing to do but give it to Constance Sommers."

I knew that name—every child in England did. Constance Sommers had written and illustrated the marvelous tales of the flower fairies that had a place on every nursery shelf—and all this time, she had been one of my grandparents’ neighbors! Surely she, if anyone, could save this little fairy! After much begging and pleading, I was allowed, reluctantly, to accompany Grandmother as she brought the fairy to Miss Sommers.

The carriage brought us to a tidy brown brick cottage atop a hill, surrounded by the most glorious gardens I had ever seen. Flowers bloomed on shrubs and trees, climbed trellises and the walls of the cottage, and blanketed the ground with every color of the rainbow. Even from the carriage I could see dozens of fairies flitting among the blossoms. I was utterly enchanted. Were it not for the dead fairy I carried in the jar, I might have lost myself in ecstasy.

The moment we alighted from the carriage, a gate leading to a back garden opened, and a woman strode toward us. She was like the branch of a tree—impossibly tall, thin and knobby. Her hair—dark, with only whispers of silver—was cut close to her head. She wore a simple white shirtwaist and black skirt, and dozens of tools—pens, keys, scissors, lens—hung from a silver-chained chatelaine at her waist. Her eyes, caged behind gold-rimmed spectacles, darted a million directions, fairy-quick, as if cataloging the landscape.

At last, her eyes lit on me—or rather, upon the jar in my hands. She rushed toward me without so much as a glance at Grandmother. “Fairy?” she asked.

I nodded and lifted the jar toward her. She took it and examined it with those sharp eyes—which quickly widened. “I’ve never seen this kind before.” Those eyes pierced me. “Where did you find it?”

She was speaking to me, not Grandmother! Never before had an adult addressed me so directly. “In Grandmother’s rose garden,” I said. “Can you save it?”

The head moved—one sharp shake. “It’s dead. Perfectly preserved. Do you have more?”

“N...no.”

“If you get some, I’ll pay triple the going rate. Could be a new species.”

She bombarded me with questions—what kind of flower the fairy resembled, the location of the garden, the soil conditions, the time of capture, the surrounding flowers. Grandmother answered the more technical ones, but since she hadn’t seen the fairy until I’d shown it to her dead in a jar, most of the questions about it fell to me. I was terribly shy, but under the circumstances, too bewildered to be afraid. As Miss Sommers jotted down my answers in a small diary, I had my first brush with a scientific approach to fairies—and I was fascinated.

As she questioned, Constance Sommers wandered through her gardens, making note of various fairies—lilies, honeysuckle, hollyhocks—but clearly intending me to follow and continue with the interview. I had never felt so important. I answered the questions to the best of my ability—and she seemed impressed.

“You’ve got a good eye,” she said. “Good memory.”

As if I could have forgotten anything about the queen of the fairies!

I trailed Miss Sommers through her back garden, losing Grandmother somewhere along the way. At last, Miss Sommers approached one of the cottage’s side doors. With a twist of one of the keys at her waist, the door opened, and I followed her inside.

At first, I thought we’d entered another garden. Every surface—every wall, ceiling, shelf and dozens of tables—seemed to be covered in framed flowers. Enchanted, I stepped closer to the nearest one, and found that it was the lilaced purple skirt of a flower fairy.

My enchantment turned to horror. Every single one of those surfaces—every frame—was filled with flower fairies, each one as lifeless as the beautiful specimen in my jar.

I ran away screaming.

I took only two steps out the door before Miss Sommer’s hand came down upon my shoulder like an iron shackle. She stood over me, as immovable as stone. “Where are you going?”

She did not sneer. She did not sympathize. She didn’t try to soothe or placate me. She simply asked. Before such unshakable practicality, I was helpless. My screams stopped.

She pulled me back into that room and plopped me onto a low wooden stool. Frozen as I was, I didn’t resist. Then she opened the door, tipped the fairy onto a table, and went to work.

Her hands were like two fairies, constantly in motion, yet always sure where they were going. I forgot about the walls and simply watched her work. With minuscule brushes, she cleaned the fairy’s lifeless form, then arranged it inside another wooden frame. She posed it with its hands outstretched, its nearly invisible wings positions halfway down so as to catch some of the light in rainbows. I recognized in this work the same hand that had painted such delicate pictures of living fairies. Though the fairy’s end was tragic, she was turning it into something beautiful.

As she worked, she lectured—I believe she forgot I was only a visiting seven-year-old, and not a potential apprentice. She explained how the preservation of specimens allowed for further study. She spoke about competing theories as to the origins of the fairies—whether they were one species that took on camouflage based upon the nearby blossoms, or multiple species that were born with each flower—whether they were somehow tied to the flower’s life cycle or whether they were an independent species laying eggs within the blossoms.

I have heard it said many times over the years that Constance Sommers did not like children. Certainly, she did not handle children with delicate patronizing care, as the adults of that generation and that class tended to do. Certainly, she had attention only for her work. But I believe it was simply that she was no respecter of age. Whether her listener was seven or seventy years of age, so long as they respected her work, she allowed them to stay.

That day, I stayed for hours as she utterly captivated my mind and imagination. My little fairy, who met such a tragic end, became a crowning jewel of her collection, vital to her later discoveries about the camouflage abilities of rose fairies. Those discoveries were not published by the scientific community for decades—her gender and field of study made it almost impossible for her to be taken seriously, until later developments in ecology made her work impossible to ignore.

But what adults could not accept, children welcomed with open minds. The fairy of the white-and-red-striped rose featured in her next picture book—as Queen of the Fairies.

Now, I am grateful that, in recognizing both the artistic and scientific achievements of this remarkable woman, the rest of England knows what I learned that day—that title truly belongs, and always will belong, to Constance Sommers.

[loreleywrites]

The Gateshead Engine

If you bought the itch.io game bundle for racial justice and inequality a month ago, one of the games it contains is a single-player ttrpg called The Gateshead Engine by Adam Roy (Follow the link to buy and play yourself!)

The basis of the game is simple: It is Victorian England, and you have been commissioned to built a steampunk mech. You flip cards from a tarot deck to give you situations for your diary entries, and you can finish...basically whenever you want.

I enjoyed it greatly, and wanted to publicly share my game. Content warning for a bit of body horror and minor surgical stuff at the end? It’s not like, explicit though. Anyway, I haven’t stretched my horror muscles in a while, and I love how this game started vs where it ended. Hope y’all enjoy!

Starting Questions:

—Who are you, and why did you agree to build the Engine?

I am Loreley Weisel, German thermodynamicist on the brink of bankruptcy. Europe is corrupt, and my will careens towards destruction.

—Who is your patron, and what, if anything, do you know about them? Why did they tell you they wanted the Engine?

My patron is an English aristocrat, Thomas Boroughshire III. All I know is that he has deep pockets and a fascination for thermophysics. He wants my Engine as a mechanical marvel, a party trick for a boy with too many years behind him.

—What is your community like? What do they value and what do they fear?

The community is wealthy. Large estates line a well-kept road. Dogs are bred. Horses are shoed. Foxes are hunted. Gardens beg for release from their clipped restraints. The air itself is made of brick. They value stability, power (or the projection of it), and greed.

—What will the Engine do when it’s completed, and what will it change? (This may shift during play; for now, decide what you think the answer is when you agree to build the Engine.)

My Engine is a herald of death. The aristocracy will be beaten into submission, and England will follow France in the march towards the guillotine.

My Engine:

Diary:

Monday, April 26, 1880—

I do not belong here, in this kingdom, in this estate, in this…garage. Hope’s Paradise is far from the largest house in this community, and His Highness can barely provide enough space for me to work. He does not respect me, nor does his staff. Dinners will be cold on nights I work late. There will be no hot water when I go to draw a bath. They do not want me here.

Fitting enough; I do not wish to dwell here any longer than I have to.

The neighbors are no better. Squire Duncannon of Blah Blah Blah invites me to speak German whenever he harasses me with what he calls conversation, but refuses to use the tongue himself. His wife has never uttered a word beyond her scowl. When I pass by Covington Place, the children stop and watch, twittering among themselves. I wonder what the Duke and Duchess have told them about me. I would not know, for I have never been allowed inside their gates.

England will burn, and this wretched grove of greed will be the tinder.

Wednesday, April 28, 1880—

That godforsaken child has entered my workshop again. Grease smeared all across the floor. Handprints of coal dust cover every box and bench. Every fire hazard should come at the cost of a finger. The little brat will have nubs by week’s end.

Friday, April 30, 1880—

Saturday, May 1

A song. Melancholic, but strong. Thunderous, but ephemeral.

How many hours have slipped by tonight? Dream grips my mind like a starving urchin with hardtack. Maybe these gears and pipes are singing me a lullaby.

Oh for heaven’s sake it’s half two. To sleep with me.

Tuesday, May 4, 1880—

Fucking Third of Family horseshit-brained fool. Every thief with deep pockets thinks themselves a scientist just because they bought opium from one once. I know how to build my Engine. Fuck off with this talk about gas compression. My math is sound, and changing one element means redesigning the entire boiler system.

His Highness has been placated with some minor aesthetic downgrades that better cater to his asinine tastes. For now.

Wednesday, May 5, 1880—

Fucking Third of Family horseshit-brained fool. If it weren’t for the coal dust handprints, I’d think he was the child ransacking my workshop with relentless fervor. Instead, he has simply decided to rearrange my supplies to the garage entrance. My ankle will heal in a few days, but I cannot work on my Engine until it mends. Time is money, and he has more money than I have time.

Sunday, May 9, 1880—

The ankle works.

Monday, May 10, 1880—

His Highness invited his dearest, most important friends to dine in his atrociously cultivated garden. The Wells boy snuck off and found me in my workshop. I have never met another child like him. His curiosity is insatiable, and he knows more about thermodynamics than most learned men I’ve met.

He asked me a question I could not answer: “If this machine is meant for war, how can you fight a navy with it?”

I suppose this will be a larger problem when the revolution hatches from England and threatens the mainland. For now, I must keep focused on this single-minded task. If we make it that far, I will find an answer.

…Perhaps I am naïve and misguided.

Wednesday, May 12, 1880—

The entire community has decided to roll their porcine asses to the south of France for holiday. Such a shame I contracted a bit of a cough and elected to stay here to recover. The travel would have been much too hard on my delicate frame.

Two weeks of uninterrupted work begins tonight.

Friday, May 14, 1880—

For. Fuck’s. Sake.

Her Highness fainted at the pier moments before they were to board a ferry across the Channel. Feared she had come down with the same pestilence I had contracted. Now the entire extended Boroughshire rabble is returning posthaste.

The quiet? Gone. Their need for attention? Only I can sate it. My Engine? Still incomplete, and will be for some time.

If I drown myself in enough whiskey, the mystery of my death should keep their tiny minds occupied for at least a week.

I intend to refill my lamps and work as long as I can tonight. May their arrival home tomorrow wake me at noon for all I care.

Saturday, May 15, 1880—

I was awoken at nine in the morning. Forty minutes of unrestful rest.

Tuesday, May 17 18, 1880—

Knocked the fucking lamp looking for my pen. Lucky I didn’t burn this entire estate to ash.

…Perhaps unlucky.

He even haunts my dreams, touching my Engine and reducing it to rust at the moment that should have been my victory. What Hell of idiocy have I gotten myself into? Fucking aristocrats standing in the way of their own downfall by sheer incompetence. Back to sleep with me.

Tuesday, May 18, 1880 (again)—

I’ve read a number of fascinating papers that I received in the mail today. While I admit I know little of the burgeoning field of electrical engineering, the work being done in the States is fascinating. I intend to take a short trip into London to seek more research (And get a right stein of beer; this house and its occupants are worthless.)

Friday, May 21, 1880 (London)—

I have been granted access to ~~Royal~~ archives. Despite my distaste for locking knowledge away from the public, I am nonetheless grateful for this opportunity. All the kingdom’s brightest minds (what few there are) have recorded years of research on every possible thread of science.

Galvanic principles are fascinating to me. To think, all these thousands of years, we have had electricity inside us! Thoughts percolate, but I do not yet know to what end.

I shall return to the cursed Golden Land in the countryside tomorrow. Between my notes and a few papers, I have been allowed to abscond with, I am reinvigorated with hope for my work.

Saturday, May 22, 1880—

I should extricate and boil every last one of their tongues!

The entire community’s patriarchs were waiting in the living room of Hope’s Paradise (Clearly not my hope.)  Word got out of my project, and every cock-waggling primitive decided that this was a matter that required ending their holiday early. While their offspring splash in the Mediterranean, their sagging eyes are now fixed on that fucking garage.

I don’t know who is merely curious, who else feels inadequate enough to lie about their scientific credentials, or who wants to break my Engine merely because I’m a woman. Too many men in my workshop. Had I less restraint, an axe may have been all I needed to solve this annoyance.

Hopefully the dullards bore sooner than later. I may need to beat Mr. Duncannon with a German dictionary regardless.

Tuesday, June 8, 1880—

Between the constant need to shun nosy men from my workshop and the actual work itself, I have not had the constitution to keep my diary.

But today…ah, today! The control platform appears to be totally functional! I have toiled too long to have failure spring from my fingertips. Rotational velocities are stable, cranks and gears are greased and mobile, the Gatling guns are…gatling.

For the first time since I began my work here, I feel like I have accomplished something great. The aristocracy’s days are numbered.

Monday, June 14, 1880—

Work continues to sap my focus. Boiler…not cooperating. I fear I will lose all the work I’ve done on it due to some unforeseen flaw. A redesign at this stage would be costly, but so would continuing with a faulty boiler. Either way, I’m taking tomorrow off from work to clear my head.

Thursday, June 17, 1880—

Time off has proved productive. I finally finished reading the documents on loan from the ~~Royal~~ archives, and there is a fascinating bit of research by a man by the name of Frankenstein. His work on galvanic sciences from earlier this century are far beyond anything I’ve found from English archives in the last decade. This even only seems to be his initial work; perhaps I can track down his true masterpieces of intellect. Maybe I don’t even need to redesign a boiler…

One blight on my day over lunch: that coal-handed bastard child has returned. I think it’s Constance.

Wednesday, Jun 23, 1880—

The Andersons down the way lost one of their bitches last night. She was a beautiful hound, but her memory will live on in my diary. I wanted some hands-on experience with Frankenstein’s work, so I was able to procure the corpse for a small fee (to His Highness who is paying my bills).

Wondrous! Such are the things I learned. A body, made of muscle, controlled by electricity. I suspect I may need to seek out an anatomist or some other scholar of the biological sciences to continue this research.

My mind is alight with so many ideas…

Wednesday, June 30, 1880—

June ends and takes the boiler with it. My Engine shall have a grand new design. Thomas has been placated by promises of surprise. “The most groundbreaking work in thermodynamics!” I lied. His is a mind easily led astray by spectacle.

Sunday, July 4, 1880—

Constable came round today. Mr. Duncannon hasn’t been seen in three days. He left for an important business meeting in Paris, but missed his boat. Coach is missing too. It’s all very curious. I did everything I could to keep that sniveling pig out of my workshop. Given the way his nose recoiled into his skull, it seems the stench of grease and ozone was enough.

In more academic news, I received notice that more of Victor Frankenstein’s research papers are being released from an archive in Switzerland. I should have them by week’s end. My excitement radiates like the sun.

Friday, July 9, 1880—

Wolfgang. Heinrich. Fuchs.

At my forsaken door. With my forsaken research papers.

How the fuck did he find out I was working on galvanism? Who is he still connected to? Which one of my friends betrayed me (besides him)?

He was in this fucking house asking me fucking questions about my fucking work. Fuck him. He better not stick around. After what he took from me…fuck.

Tuesday, July 13, 1880—

Chaos reigns.

Wolfgang has shacked up with the Andersons. He swings by almost daily. When I’m not actually busy, I try to look it.

Constance has gotten her hands into the coal again (I haven’t disposed of it for appearance’s sake.)

The Duncannons are planning a funeral for…whatever his name was. I don’t think I ever bothered to remember anything about him other than when he would finally leave this hellish corner of England.

Thomas has been migrating in and out of Hope’s Paradise. Something about a trade deal in India. It sounds very important for a man who makes riches off the backs of foreigners.

I could use a big stein at a small biergarten.

Sunday, July 18, 1880—

Widow Duncannon speaks! Her first words spoken to me in the months I’ve resided her are accusations that I have something to do with the death of her husband and his driver. Utter nonsense. The police found the driver at the bottom of a pint in a pub last week. The way gossip echoes around these families, however, I won’t be surprised if they begin to turn on me.

My work must accelerate.

Thursday, July 22nd, 1880—

Widow Duncannon, Duchess Byron. Mrs. Boroughshire. All the Andersons. None of them will speak to me. They glare if they see me, so I try to keep to my room and my workshop as much as possible. I’m lucky Her Highness is so subservient to Thomas. This house would be unbearable if she had any willpower over it.

Tuesday, July 27, 1880—

Celebrations are in order! I have poured over work by Golgi, Frankenstein, and Schwann. Every guide I could find on electrical engineering. Trial after trial, failure after failure. And yet…

And yet.

It’s not that I have hope my Engine will work, it’s that I have knowledge that it will. My designs are so clear to me. My protypes are all working as planned. The path to revolution has been laid out before me. Now it is up to me to walk it.

Tomorrow is the beginning of the end.

Wednesday, July 28, 1880—

Coal hands. Inside my workshop. Inside. My. Workshop. And this time, ha! This time, I have a culprit.

I made it very clear to Constance that she will not be loitering in my laboratory anymore.

Saturday, August 7, 1880—

What have I become?

Why did I begin building my Engine? Something about a war? Who can say. Time marchers onward. My Engine will march with time. Every experiment has made it clearer to me that I have stumbled upon the greatest discovery of this era.

No one celebrates with me. Not Thomas. Not Her Highness. Not Constance, nor the boys, Timothy and Franklin. Even Wolfgang is silent (at last).

The neighbors have stopped visiting. I wave when I pass them by, but they just sneer and hurry past. Finally, I can work in peace and silence. Finally my genius can become reality. Finally all of Europe will know what Loreley Weisel is capable of.

I have become the herald of great change, a conduit of the very building blocks of existence.

Tuesday, August 10, 1880—

A toast to the Duke and Duchess! May their patronage live forever in my greatest work! Soon I hope to bring the Andersons into this project as well.

Wednesday, August 18, 1880—

The Engine lives! The support of this community has been invaluable as the final construction has occurred. Everyone has poured their hearts into my work, and it’s truly a masterpiece that could not have been built alone.

My galvanic calibrations have been finalized. My circuits have been tested. It is nearing time for me to put all of myself into my work. I will see success.

Saturday, August 21, 1880—

The loneliness is getting to me. Not even the dogs bark anymore. I talk to my Engine, but its flesh is silent.

Monday, August 23, 1880—

The constable returned. With six policemen. He had questions about His Highness and the Duke and Duchess and Widow Duncannon. I told him the truth: I could help him find them.

I cooperated.

I have a surplus.

Wednesday, August 25, 1880—

Why shouldn’t I? It worked for them. Shouldn’t it work for me? All the principles are the same. They’re muscle. I’m muscle. They’re electric. I’m electric. Why shouldn’t I be in control?

Thursday, August 26, 1880—

Wolfgang, that bastard! He said he knew everything that I had been up to. That is outrageous! He knows nothing!

I have destroyed my room in rage. Fucking Fuchs! What does he think he knows? Who has he told? I should have killed him. Why didn’t I kill him? He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve my creation. He covets it. He wants it for himself. I know it. He got me kicked out of university, he got me run out of Germany. He is jealous. Jealous! He knows I’m better. He knows I’m smarter. He wants what I have, my Engine, my child. He can’t have it. He can’t. He won’t. Where did he go? Fucking Wolfgang I will fucking kill him. He knows nothing. He’s bluffing. He just wants my success. My genius. He is nothing. He will be nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He nothing. Nothing. nothing nothing nothing noth

Sunday, August 29, 1880—

This will be the final entry to my diary. The morning air is heavy with the musk of summer. It’s strange to me how calm I am given what I am about to do.

My Engine has come so far from its days as a sketch on a piece of parchment. Veins of red pulse behind the metal. Sinew, steel, and lightning working in harmony. Every stitch and every suture as perfect as the one before it. So many died for its creation, and so many more will die when I am finished today.

I expected my hand to shake more as I inked the incision lines across my skin. I expected my mind to be foggier as I tried to remember every nerve that would need work. Even the pain I am about to endure has not shaken my resolve.

I am uncertain what the scientific community will think of my work. Of the sacrifices I made. But I have proven a radical truth: All the money in the world does not stop one from being built from the same parts as another. And that’s all we are: Animals with organs and muscles and electricity surging through us. If machines can harness that energy, why can’t we? If new machines can be invented, why not new humans?

All I can hope for now is that my composure holds through the entire procedure. Once I am integrated into my Engine, I will command a mind and body unseen by man. Unparalleled by any of God’s creation. Magnificent in its genius. My genius.

Today I will change humanity forever.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Cost of Living || Morgan & Erin

TIMING: Before Lydia’s death

PARTIES: @corpse--diem & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan seeks comfort from a friend who understands a little about murder and revenge.

CONTAINS: two sad gays

Morgan had never bemoaned her inability to drink more. She had almost dropped the large bottle of bourbon she’d brought for Erin out of spite on the way over. But it stayed tight in her grip as she shambled to her friend’s apartment and knocked on the door. When it opened, she said nothing, but sank, almost as if falling, into Erin’s chest, hoping she’d catch her. “Everything...is going...to shit,” she said. Her words were muffled on account of being mumbled into Erin’s shirt, but the heavy weariness in her tone filled in whatever got lost. Morgan just managed to pull herself upright again. “I’m honestly not even sure how much to tell you because I am so fucking tired of losing friends right now. But, you know, hi. And uh—” She lifted the bourbon. “Congrats. Careful, she’s heavier than I make her look.”

There was a flurry of Morgan and leftover glitter trailing in from the hallway the moment Erin opened the door. “Hey there dollfa--oof,” she started to welcome her friend, and did her best to catch her with the one good arm she had and braced still healing ribs for impact. The collapsed hug took a little bit of her breath but from the exhaustion and disarray in Morgan’s voice, Erin knew it was more than worth it. She gave the woman a hard squeeze anyway, rubbing her arm, her own face riddled with empathy and understanding. “Honestly, there’s little that can surprise me anymore, so this is a safe space. Say as much of your peace as you need to.” A small smirk lifted the corner of her lips at Morgan’s offering. “That helps. A lot. Holy shit, you weren’t kidding about top shelf.” Benefits of dating a mysteriously wealthy woman, she supposed, remembering the car Deirdre bought Blanche and the apartment and dog she’d given Nic. Ushering her friend inside, she lamented the fact that she didn’t have any spare eyeballs or hearts or something for her friend to munch on for the first time since she’d given up the organ business. “Now. Please, sit down, tell me all about it,” she said, gesturing towards the couch as she grabbed a glass from the kitchen.

Morgan followed Erin’s urging and collapsed onto the couch, ragdoll style. “No one understands what I’m doing. Or--okay, Deirdre understands what I’m doing. There’s this tortured, maybe-evil vampire who sometimes understands what I’m doing. But everyone else I’ve brought into this, my friends--friend I asked over and over if they were sure and if they could handle it--either don’t want anything to do with it, or they’ve decided to take matters into their own hands and--” She scrubbed her eyes clean before the tears burning behind them could fall. “The person I thought was one of my closest friends tried to steal my exorcism ingredients. After they hatched a plan with the ghost I’m after. The ghost that killed me in the street. That murdered one of my students and endangered the rest of them. Oh, and get this! She’s my great-great grandmothers’s ex! Which means I was cursed from birth and then murdered over a shitty nineteenth century lesbian drama!” She slumped over, holding her head in her hands.”Listen,” she groaned, “Before I get too cozy with the rest of my bullshit, I need you to be very, very honest with me: are you going to want throw me out for wanting to wreck the ghost who destroyed me and my family over the past one hundred twenty whatever years? Because I can just go, if this is making you uncomfortable. It’s not like I can get drunk with you anyway.”

There wasn’t much to do but listen once Morgan started. Truly started. Collapsing at the door was only a small taste of what Morgan needed to spill out, like a pot of boiling water no longer able to contain its contents. Erin knew that feeling all too well. There was more than a few familiar pings that went off as she spoke, actually and most of them weren’t pleasant. “If you try to tell me you don’t know the answer to that, I actually will throw you out,” Erin said firmly, turning enough on the couch so Morgan had no other option than to face her. Her voice softened slightly. “Constance deserves what’s coming to her and you deserve to be the one to end it. But this—“ she gestured vaguely towards Morgan, “the fights, the lows, things going wrong, people dying and getting hurt. People won’t look at you the same and your relationships’ll change. That’s part of the Big Time Take Back My Life Revenge package. And it feels like shit.” She paused, reaching for her forearm gently.  “I support you no matter what, okay? But that’s part of this and something you have to accept and live with when it’s over.”

Morgan laughed through her tears. “Are you sure everything she did isn’t suddenly invalidated by her being a ghost or being young? Because some people seem to feel that way, and I didn’t realized that over a century’s worth of being magically ground up and spat out or being murdered was some kind of conditional thing, nevermind what average standards of adulthood were in the 1890’s, or life expectancy, or anything other than her stupid Little Coven on the Prairie face.” She dragged her hands through her hair, trying to brace herself for the worst. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I know you’ve...you’ve done something incredible and hard and awful and you are so much stronger and more free now, even if not everyone sees that. And I just want some of that control back. Even a little. I want the last word on how that ends. And I...I hate it so much but I don’t know how close I even can be with someone who won’t try to understand how important and personal this is. I just didn’t think it would be so much.” She finally looked at Erin again, searching her face for disapproval, for hesitation. “And then there’s the personal life stuff but I think we, uh, should have a round of you stuff first. The way you sound, I don’t guess it’s all been victory laps and roses since you killed Roy.”

Erin softened only slightly when Morgan brought up the ghost’s age. Being a ghost didn’t matter much to her - if they had conscious thought and free will, and knew better, then it was free game to right some wrongs. Right? Still, she felt herself paling at Morgan’s compliments. “Maybe. A part of me feels better but a part of me doesn’t either? I’m not trying to sound preachy but that’s all I’m trying to say. You gain and regain some things but you lose things too. Some of those things you can’t get back.” It wasn’t exactly the same as Morgan’s situation but the core of it, even in a general sense, was something that felt unfortunately familiar. Roy had destroyed her family just as much as Constance had Morgan’s. A tight-lipped, wry smile crossed her lips at Morgan’s question and she leaned forward to grab her drink again. She raised her brows and took a sip. “What do you mean? I’m thriving.” Another sip emptied the glass and the bourbon went burned smoothly down her throat. She poured herself some more, a little apologetic that Morgan couldn’t partake. Sounded like she needed a few glasses herself right now. “I got what I wanted,” she nodded, giving a dry laugh. “Roy’s dead, my friends are in literal pieces, my house and business are still half-ash, my boyfriend’s gone and my best friend just blocked me from her life. Hopefully that’s not a taste of what you might end up with. Learn from my mistakes?” She offered before knocking back another long sip.

Morgan watched Erin drink enviously. Sometimes she could go for a day or two without missing her life, but seeing Erin’s nerves unclench as the liquid sloshed down her throat, the way she slumped into the cushions, actually taking in the comfort of softness, reminded Morgan of how much she’d lost and how much everyone who pretended to get it or understand that things ‘sucked’ or were ‘unfair’ had no fucking clue. But she wasn’t circling the drain so hard that she couldn’t catch the exhaustion in Erin’s voice. “Literal pieces? You and Nic, Marley--what? Okay, first of all, whatever edgelord bullshit Marley is pulling right now is not your fault. If she’s going to push people away and turn into a toxic asshole, that’s her problem, not yours. I mean, I’m sorry it hurts, and it’s not fair and you don’t deserve it, but I don’t think it’s you, Erin.” Morgan grabbed one of the pillows on Erin’s couch and squIshed it over her stomach, digging her fingers in until it looked ready to burst. “I know it wasn’t perfect, nothing is perfect,” she said quietly. “But I do think it was right. And maybe if more people had been pushed into such an awful, desperate situation, they wouldn’t be so quick to decide they know best.” Morgan certainly didn’t trust anyone except for Deirdre with the true price of eradicating Constance. Miriam wouldn’t bat an eyelash,but their last talk had been so complicated, and she wanted Miriam to understand a life with as little violence as possible. It wouldn’t be fair to keep asking her to sink into the dark with her just because she was already there and deeper. Erin had killed in the name of her cause, and Roy was just as dangerously persistent as Constance. But the methodology of killing him hadn’t been important. Holding her secret even tighter than the pillow across her chest, Morgan lifted her gaze to meet Erin’s. “I don’t know what it’s worth to you, but I will not stop being your friend just because you decided your life was worth more than the law or other people’s comfort. I believe in what you did. I’m sorry it’s...that it’s hard.” She knew hard too. She looked at it every day she checked in with the exorcist, insisting she had a plan for the source and could do it herself. “Is there anything I can do…?” She asked quietly.

Erin couldn’t help the snorting laugh when the word “edgelord” popped up into the conversation, nor could she help the wave of despair that followed it. Marley was tough, had a flair for the dramatics, sure, but she had also been the closest thing Erin had to a best friend she’d had in a decade. And Nic - well, that one still felt too fresh and raw to poke at yet. But Morgan’s presence and words alone were a calming salve she needed more than she realized. “The accident really messed her up. Big time. I know it’s not okay, the way she’s handling this and the way she’s treating me for it. She signed up for this and she pushed me out of the way so I wouldn’t die. But I don’t know that I’d be handling it well either. I just--I have to give her some time, you know? She’ll come around.” Probably. She has to, she thought, circling the top of her glass with her index finger. And if she didn’t? Erin wasn’t ready to contemplate that just yet. Morgan’s next words hit harder than she was prepared for and only furthered to cement how deeply Morgan understood what she was going through right now. She was one of the few who truly could.

She glanced over, that familiar burn tingling behind her eyes and she reached for one of the hands that threatened to tear apart her throw pillow. “Hey, me too, okay?” she nodded, squeezing her cold fingers hard. “I promise you’re stuck with me.” It was a weird promise to make, and not one Erin often promised anyone, but the dedication and loyalty Morgan had shown her throughout this entire thing had been unparalleled and that was a rare thing to have in her life. She’d be an idiot to let that fall to the wayside. “Just sitting here and listening to be whine about my life is all a girl can really ask for.” The corner of her mouth lifted into a smile. “Whatever you need from me too, you know. You’ve got it.” She raised a brow, tilting her head. “And hey, get me an iron rod and some salt and I can punch some ghosts for you too. I’m not above punching a murderous ghost-brat if the situation calls for it.”

Morgan couldn’t fault Erin for standing by her friend, even if she thought everything would be much simpler with Marley Stryder left in the dust. She was a person, complicated and pitiful and capable of more than just harm. But she was also a person who complicated Morgan’s life considerably, and had now hurt three people Morgan cared for. She gave Erin a squeeze and said, “If you say so. I hope she comes through, for your sake.” Morgan didn’t feel convinced for a minute, but Erin deserved a better friend than that. Injury or not, Marley could afford to at least be more communicative about the shit she was grappling with.

Morgan smiled at Erin’s reassurance and swallowed back the urge to cry again. “That means a lot, you know. I’m...stars, I’m just so tired of this. And of people not understanding. If I can just get it over with…” Even with the human cost, she could finally be free of everything. “And the last thing I want is for you to end up as part of Constance’s next body count. She’s not afraid to murder to get to me, and I have enough blood on my hands. But maybe next time we go out I’ll give you some iron knuckles or a big ol’l thing of salt to hang onto.” She snorted through her tears. “At least after all these years I have a salt pistol now. It’s kind of cool until you remember it’s only good for one thing.” She wiped her face and leaned into her friend’s shoulder. “But there is...I don’t know if you can do anything, is the thing, but maybe you might know someone after the whole...Roy mess. But the guy Felix left in charge of my decap isn’t so great with the timely deliveries. Smaller loads, and tighter timelines, like down to the wire. And you’ve never seen me how...the way I get sometimes. If you can give me a name, some other hookup or back up avenue I can look into so I don’t lose my fucking mind on top of anything else, that would be pretty swell, not gonna lie.”

Erin had a feeling Morgan wouldn’t quite understand her attachment or commitment to Marley. She hadn’t seen the side of Marley that remained on her side through the entire Roy ordeal, who’d thrown herself in the line of fire when Erin had been dangerously close to meeting her maker. It wasn’t something she could explain either. Whether she liked it or not, Marley was too important and too close to her now to toss aside. “One can only hope with her,” she teased gently.

“Oh, Morgan,” she chuckled a little, holding her friend close when she began to dissolve into a mess of tears, trying to fight back the ones Morgan’s words were slowly edging out of her.  God, she didn’t want to cry. She was so tired of crying and moping around this apartment, moving from her bed to the couch and back, even if that’s all her body was telling her she was capable of lately. “A salt pistol? Have you ever used it?” She smirked, raising a brow. “I could totally go for those iron knuckles though, if you get a chance. It could be multipurpose. Ghosts aren’t the only things that need punching,” she laughed, but only for a moment, Morgan’s next question slowly dawning on her like a slow dread building. Morgan had mentioned her medication before, and that Felix had been her prior hookup. And now she needed a new hookup. Her request wasn’t an unreasonable one, and if there was anything Erin could do to ease even a little bit of Morgan’s plight, she’d jump at it. But diving back into that mess? Reaching out to contacts she thought she’d never have to speak to again? She tensed unintentionally, straightening her back, but tried to relax again and rested her cheek on top of Morgan’s head. “Yeah. Sure. I can’t make any promises. I know I was in that world and I know a few people I can contact but if that’s what you need, then I’ll see what I can do.” She glanced down for a moment, straining to pull a smile onto her face, reaching down to lightly tap Morgan’s nose with her index finger. “And if it means one less thing you’ve gotta worry about dollface, I’ll be glad to.”

“I’ve fired it a couple times, actually,” Morgan sniffled, managing a small grin. “I actually got Constance in the head with one once. It was pretty great in the moment.” In the fallout, not so much, but she was trying to make herself feel better, not worse. “A couple other times too. In uh, in a car chase, actually. I didn’t get her, but maybe you’d be proud of me, leaning out the window like I was in a movie. And I wasn’t even on mobster brains or anything.” Her smile flickered wider for a moment and she gave Erin a squeeze to the extent of, I’m okay, I’ll be okay.

She was still touching her when Erin tensed. “I didn’t know who else to ask,” she said. “I just need a name, a jumping off point. And I can pay. If that’s a question with anyone you talk to. Deirdre covers me and you know she’s good for it, and I’ll take...fuck, I take whatever the price is. I don’t want to be gouged by some asshole, but I need to be myself or none of this is worth anything.” She caught Erin’s finger and hooked it around her own, as she made a soft, wet laugh. “Thanks, dollface,” she whispered. “I can come with, if you want some back up. I think I made quite an impression that one time. And you know I’m a lot tougher than I look, even if I am kind of a crybaby.” With Erin’s assurances, Morgan deflated with relief and finally stretched out, feet on the coffee table. “So what’s this about Nic, and the other stuff? Was that...part of the things you lost because of what you did for yourself?” She gave her a little nudge and lowered her voice. “We don’t have to talk about it, but you don’t have to be tough gal, shit together Erin all the time with me either.”

It wasn’t funny, but it really was and Erin let out an abrupt laugh at the image of Morgan running around with a salt pistol, hanging out of car windows and shooting ghosts in the head like some tiny badass, peppy zombie with a mission. “I’m sorr--no, actually, I’m not sorry. That’s amazing,” she managed between hard giggles shaking her shoulders. “Why do I never get to see you do any of this badass stuff? How is this fair?” She shook her head, letting out a long breath as she relaxed a little further into the couch. “Promise you’ll teach me how to use one of those things one day?”

Erin could hear the hint of desperation in Morgan’s voice and knew this wasn’t something she was asking lightly. Asking your reluctant friend to reach into shady contact rolodex for illegal supernatural drugs wasn’t usually high on anyone’s list. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. But If I need your assist, you better come packing heat, you hear?” She teased slightly, trying to hide the dread building. She wasn’t looking forward to stepping back into that world but there were a few people she could reach to who didn’t want her dead for what she accomplished with Roy. For all Morgan had done for her, this was the last she could do. She squeezed Morgan’s hand, relieved at possibly settling some of Morgan’s nerves. Without thinking, Erin shifted only to grab her drink again and settled back against Morgan and the couch. Fiddled with it between her hands anxiously. “I don’t know--” she shook her head as she struggled to put it to words. “Getting here took everything I had. My home, my work. Did a number on my relationships too. Living with everything I had to do just--I thought I was ready for it, and I forced myself to be, but actually living with it makes me feel like I didn’t win anything at all.” Felt weird to say that outloud. Morgan was the first person she’d been able to open up so honestly about where she landed with the fall out and god did it feel good to know that she’d heard. Really heard. “The Nic thing--it’s unrelated to everything. He had to go on some hunter mission… thing, and didn’t know when, or even if he’d be back. And right now I can’t even think about leaving. I’m trying to rebuild, you know? The timing just--it sucks.” She took a deep, wavering breath when she felt the warmth of tears pushing forward down her cheeks and smothered them with a long swig of bourbon. “It really, really fucking sucks.”

“I guess you don’t hang out with me enough,” Morgan teased. “But I guess I could show you a thing or two. Not sure how helpful a salt round would be since your eyeballs aren’t dead enough to see ghosts, but we’ll have a good time. Probably wouldn’t hurt, knowing how to pop off a few rounds in a pinch. I don’t think White Crest has shooting ranges in every corner of town like they do in Texas, but there’s gotta be something in a place with this many hunters. If you want a badass date, you just have to say the word and I’m there, okay?”

Maybe that date would be soon, maybe it wouldn’t. There was an awful gravity to Erin’s words, like she was speaking from the bottom of a pit. And what she said, that she didn’t feel like anything had been won and therefore felt no satisfaction or relief or...anything that Morgan craved at the end of this bullshit tunnel. And it was so unfair, for Erin to lose someone she should have been able to lean on the most at a time like this. Morgan was glad Nic had gotten out of this cruel place, at least for a while, but the leaving itself made her wonder if White Crest really was more cursed than she’d ever been.

“Hey. You can rest now, Erin,” Morgan whispered, watching the gleam of tears build up behind her friend’s eyes. “Maybe it doesn’t feel good right now, but you can rest. It’s okay.” She went still, still watching, waiting to see if Erin would believe her. Then she said, “What’s going to make you feel like you can stop running, or hiding, or whatever else you’re trying to tell yourself? I’m good for more than just talking or fighting, you know.”

Erin smiled at the prospect. “You got it. It’s a date,” she promised. It’d be good to do something with Morgan that wasn’t backed by pure necessity for once. Whether it was someone owing someone a favor or needing a shoulder to cry on. It wasn’t often she had the opportunity anymore to simply enjoy herself with her friends. Had all the time in the world now for that, didn’t she?

Morgan’s words were soft and kind and didn’t help much in the way of keeping those tears behind her eyes. Her question was a good one and it gave Erin pause as she wondered it herself. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly, shaking her head, clutching the glass tightly in her hands. It felt like she’d been running and fighting for so long now, she almost didn’t know how to stop. How to make the cogs and wheels in her head run at half speed or allow her mind and body the break they so desperately needed. “I’m still so… angry. And unsatisfied.” And lost. A large part of her never truly believed she was making it out of that whole thing alive.

Her eyes jumped up to Morgan’s suddenly. “God, this sounds terrible doesn’t it? We literally just talked about how we’re both going through this, and here I am making the endgame look pitiful and hopeless.” She rubbed her eyes, letting her fingers run down the side of her face as she took a deep breath. “It can’t feel like this forever though, you know? It’ll get better. I’m really leaning into this idea that destroying everything so you can rebuild, properly rebuild your life, will make it worth it. Because it has to be. And that’s all I can do at this point.”

Morgan nodded through a tight smile. “It’s okay. I’d rather you be honest than lie to make me feel better,” she said. And it would be different for her, right? She hadn’t lost her home like Erin had, but she had her zombie body and she had her mother’s box of trauma sitting in the closet. She hadn’t thought to dump any of it at the feet of her mother’s ghost, and it was too late now. That door was as likely to open again as Morgan’s magic. She had lost more than plenty and she had everything to win by seeing this through. Even with a little blood on her hands-- Morgan had come too far to make this stop, right? She would get to after and better and so would Erin. They just needed the dust to settle for a fucking minute.

“And it will be,” she said, firmly enough that it would sound like she believed it already.

“But what about right now? In my experience, you can either dance it out or cry it out. Where, you know, cry doubles as screaming. What are you feeling like tonight, doll?”

It will be. Erin could only nod and placed a hand on top of Morgan’s. Maybe it would be different for Morgan, maybe she’d get the satisfaction of putting to rest a lifetime of atrocities and pain for good when Constance was finally gone. It was all Erin wanted for her. It was what she deserved, frankly. And if this was how she had to go about getting it, getting her hands a little dirty, she could support her just as much as Morgan had. “It will be,” she repeated, more confident, even if it was partially pure bravado.

Morgan’s question rolled around in her mind as she took a long, slow sip. What did she want to do right now? She wanted to drink. She looked at the still nearly full bottle. Check. More crying sounded terrible and yelling wasn’t really her thing if she could prevent it. But she understood what Morgan was asking of her. A smirk lit up her features and she downed the rest of her glass. “Wait here,” was the only thing she said before unfurling herself from Morgan and the couch, moving with a sudden fire under her feet. When she reappeared with a box of clinking dishware, there was a pep in her step and an old field hockey stick under her arms. “Grab that bottle?” She nodded towards the bourbon. Didn’t wait for Morgan before hightailing it for the front door and took to the stairs that led to the roof. “Did I ever tell you I used to play field hockey in high school?” She let the box fall gently to the ground once they made their way up and she took a breath, that mischievous grin still lighting up her face. “And my mom left me some of the ugliest China I’ve ever seen in my life.” She dug into the box, pulling out the first mug her fingers touched. She’d been holding onto them for sentimental value she supposed but now? They just seemed… heavy. Unnecessary. “What’s that one lady say?” She asked, eyeing the mug as she held the stick up, lining up a trajectory. “If it doesn’t bring you joy—“ she tossed it into the air, swung, and shattered it into a dozen pieces across the rooftop.

That actually did feel pretty damn good. She laughed, really laughed, letting out a loud holler of a cheer for herself. Offered the stick to Morgan and reached for the bottle. “You’ve gotta try this.”

It took Morgan a while to put the pieces together. Bourbon, made sense. Field hockey stick, ugly china? Less so. But, “Uuh...okay, sure!” Outside, the world was full of stars and the sweet glow of light pollution from the common, like a candle had been struck and nestled under invisible glass. It was so picturesque, like a Hallmark Card. You wouldn’t guess how many people died or lost their lives and souls. You wouldn’t guess just how thoroughly you could be buried under the worst bullshit. Morgan came out of her thoughts just in time to see Erin taking the china and swinging it to pieces. “Ho-ly shit!” Morgan gaped. This wasn’t quite either of the avenues she’d thought of, but she’d be lying to herself if she said she hadn’t fantasized about playing another round of ‘zombie smash’ in the middle of her un-life crisis. And Erin’s smile was bigger than Morgan had seen it in a long time. She held out a finger for pause. “Oh, dollface, you gotta see this first,” she said, laughing with pride. She took one of the fragile teacups, held it up as if for a magic demonstration, and crushed it between her hands. “Now you see it, now you--don’t!” She laughed again, pleased with herself, then took the field hockey stick from Erin. “I don’t know why I’m surprised you were a jock butch in school,” she said, twirling it like a baton. “Crazy to think we thought a little lunchroom drama was the end of the world, huh?” She tried to repeat Erin’s move of tossing the dish into the air and hitting it to pieces, but the plate fell to the floor before she could take a swing. “I was more of an academic decathlon kind of kid,” she winced. Nerds, at least back in their day, were not especially known for their coordination. She took another, set it on the floor. “But what about...this!” She gave it a good thwack across the roof, cheering for herself when it shattered on one of the pipes. “Fuck everythiiiiing!” She cupped her hands like a sports announcer calling a goal or a point or whatever the hell it was. Another swing, another crash. “Let’s go team!”

“Oh, okay. Now you’re just showing off.” Erin cocked her head and laughed harder, watching the teacup practically disintegrate in her fingers. “That’s goth-butch-jock, thank you very much,” she corrected. God. It was even wilder to think that everything she was experiencing--the supernatural half of it, at least--was going on around her even back then. Weird things happened in White Crest, that had always been known. But there was no way she could have known what those weird things were or that she was living smack dab in the middle of it all. How she had survived this long unawares truly had been a wonder. “Yeah, that sounds about right. You’ve got some pretty strong nerd vibes,” she laughed, clapping and cheering along when she smashed the next piece. Laughter and the sound of shattering, destruction and joy existing hand in hand, filling the night air. She grabbed another cup, running her fingers along the smooth china. Broken things could still be good. “You’re more capable than you give yourself credit for though, you know.” Erin motioned for Morgan to get ready again, positioning herself at an angle where the blast radius wouldn’t nail her in the forehead. “Alright, you’ve got this, Morgan. Just don’t take your eyes off the prize.” When Morgan was ready, she started counting slowly. “1… 2… 3!”

[chaoswillfallrpg]

DAHLIA BLACKWOOD is TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS OLD and an ESCORT at FAIR FARIBAULT’S in KNOCKTURN ALLEY. She looks remarkably like CLAIRE HOLT and considers herself aligned with THE DEATH EATERS. She is currently TAKEN. 

→ OVERVIEW:

tw: murder, violence, death

In Boston, Massachusetts 1894 a miracle happened. ELIZABETH BLACKWOOD gave birth to the first girl in four generations. Not that the Blackwoods thought it a miracle, a family with dollar signs in their eyes they saw a baby girl as making little profit. The Blackwoods had made their fortune in the oil business, an oil tycoon Dahlia’s father WILLIAM BLACKWOOD made more money in the time it took him to stroll to the shops than she, a lowly girl, could ever dream of making in her lifetime. Constantly reminded of her lesser gender, Dahlia grew up thinking of herself as a second class citizen, even despite her family's wealth and the weight her surname possessed. Living in a large Victorian manor house on the outskirts of Boston, her home boasted many rooms, but to Dahlia it only had a handful. Where her brothers were allowed to roam the halls as they pleased Dahlia was kept to her bedroom and school room. When she was younger, she used to sneak out of her bedroom to play with her brothers whom she could hear having fun through her floorboards, but after being bullied mercilessly by them all and left for hours alone all night in the guise of a game of ‘hide and seek’ she gave up on finding friendship with her brothers. When it came to schooling her older brothers JAMES, CHARLES, HENRY and ARTHUR were kept close by their parents, in order to raise them to be entrepreneurs like their father, Dahlia however was sent away to an all girls school. 

At the age of ten Dahlia was happily sent to Windsor Boarding School For Girls, where her parents did not need to spare her another thought. Used to being alone, Dahlia was not phased by the prospect of school, in fact she was excited by the promise of any freedom that it could give her and was actually glad to be away from her uncaring brothers. Making friends with her roommate CORALINE HEATHER Dahlia found a new aspect of her personality she never knew she had. The pair of girls, although exceedingly bright and accomplished in their subjects, made more trouble at the school than all the other girls combined. Knowing full well that her parents wouldn't care for her whereabouts Dahlia spent her school holidays with Coraline. Christmases and summers at the Heathers house were some of Dahlias' fondest memories, Coraline's father FLOYD HEATHER, a young man who looked almost unable to be old enough to have a daughter of Coraline's age, was welcoming and kind, a stark contrast to her own. The pure favouritism of her parents shown in what happens when each of their children come of age. Her brothers were given an inheritance by their father for them to go off and create thriving businesses of their own, and with the Blackwood name to back them up it was no surprise that they all succeeded. While her brothers were given freedom and money Dahlia was brought back home after her final school year and was put immediately out on the marriage market.

 Dragged along to every high-class party and ball Dahlia was shown off to all potential suitors in attendance like a prize pig, her father not caring much for the age or disposition of the men in question.  At the youthful age of nineteen Dahlia was finally out of her parents' hair and sold to the highest bidder, a French aristocrat living in America with a Lordship, thus increasing the standing of the Blackwood family even further. JEAN BASILEIS, her new husband, was a cold man many years her senior, who clearly didn't have any want for a wife but alas needed an heir. Falling pregnant within months of her wedding day and giving birth to a son, she was truly happy to be left to her own devices. Years later Dahlia found herself in a constant loop of unhappiness, her only shining light was her son STEFAN who was growing up to be a handsome boy, not that his father cared. Jean would come in most evening drunk and smelling of other women's perfumes. Dahlia’s life however was about to change, not that she was aware. Leaving Stefan at home with his nanny she headed out in to town to meet Coraline. She had one too many drinks and spilled the secrets of her unhappy existence, saying if she could change it all she would. Being the kind friend she had always been, Coraline offered Dahlia an opportunity to better her life for herself and her son, an opportunity that Dahlia couldn't resist.

 Taking Dahlia to her father Coraline stood by as she ended her life that very night, making way for her new one as a vampire. Feeling strong and powerful for the first time in her entire life Dahlia allowed herself to dream of what she could be now that she had the gifts Floyd had bestowed upon her. Wanting to finally prove herself to her family as someone who can be just as harsh, cruel and cutting as any man she knew she and Coraline hatched a plan to bring the Blackwood empire to an end. Making her way home she played the role of subservient wife well, and acted as shocked as she should be when she received the news of the untimely death of her parents, both died instantly in a crash which was ruled an accident, her Fathers fortunes left to his eldest son James. As the years went on tragedy seemed to strike the Blackwood sons in the most unusual way. First her brother James and his family died in a terrible house fire, his business and wealth being left to the next eldest brother Charles. Now Charles was said to be loving and kind towards his family and so what happened to them shocked most that knew him. A few years after his brother’s death Charles awoke to the sound of a screaming maid who had entered his children's nursery to find them all dead, when turning to wake his wife he noticed that she too was stone cold and pale, and poor Charles, the only one still breathing was charged with their murders and sent to prison for life, his assets all being seized and given to the next in line. 

Now the oldest living son, Henry had indeed been successful in business but in love he was not, a bachelor who lived alone it was several days before his body was found. Seen entering his house by passersby with a beautiful blonde he was found several days later lying dead in his bed. His case went cold, the blonde remained unidentified and his money and businesses, including those from his brothers and father were left to the last standing Blackwood brother Arthur. Unable to have children Arthur and his wife were quite happy living amongst their riches together, or so they would have been if these tragedies had not occurred. Feeling the pressure of the family legacy solely sitting upon his shoulders and also driven mad with terror that he would be the next to meet a sticky end his wife left him and he was committed to a mental institution, legally claimed as not of sound mind and his entire family's wealth was taken from him.  Whilst all of these tragic events were occurring Dahlia found herself sitting idly by. No longer phased by her cheating husband she sat from the sidelines and watched as all of the family money and belongings continued to pour from one bank account in to the next eventually leaving her son, the sole heir to the Blackwood fortune and the only eligible receiver of Arthur's funds when he was committed, thus making herself one of the wealthiest women in America.

After the accidental death of Jean and his mistress, Dahlia was rich and free to live her life and after asking Floyd to change her son into a vampire too the pair traveled the world under the guise of brother and sister spending as much as they wanted and leaving when they were through. Centuries later she finds herself in London working with Coraline at Fair Faribaults. Not because she needs the money but because she has a fondness for playing with rich men. Here she has made friends with GEORGINE FARIBAULT, the owner of the establishment and through her has joined a movement led by a dark wizard who promises vampires a seat at his table when victorious. Loving the power being a vampire has given her Dahlia never wants to go back to feeling powerless again and so happily signed up. Through this cause she also met another new friend SELENA PETROSYAN, a beautiful ballerina who only sees herself as a horrible creature, recently being turned into a werewolf. Understanding the power of other people's opinions well and wanting Selena to see herself how she sees her Dahlia introduced her to Coraline and the trio have become inseparable. Having already been married and not gaining happiness from it Dahlia has always sworn off men for any longer than a single night. However that hasn't stopped her from looking and Dahlia has noticed GRIFFITH VANE, a handsome man who seems to be the epitome of light. She has noticed him around the alleys but has never allowed herself to approach him, residing to admiring him from afar. 

→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

Blood Status → Vampire (former Muggle)

Sexuality  → Up to Roleplayer

Relationship Status → Widowed

Previous Education → Windsor School for Girls, Boston, Massecheusetts

Family → Elizabeth Blackwood (deceased mother), William Blackwood (deceased father), James Blackwood (deceased brother), Charles Blackwood (deceased brother), Henry Blackwood (deceased brother), Arthur Blackwood (deceased brother), Stefan Blackwood (son)

Connections  → Coraline Heather (best friend), Floyd Heather (blood sire), Georgine Faribault (boss/close friend), Selena Petrosyan (close friend), Griffith Vane (object of affection), Constance Song (colleague/friend), Sebastien Fontaine (colleague/friend)

Future Information → N/A

DAHLIA BLACKWOOD IS A LEVEL 6 VAMPIRE.

[thetruename]

Switcheroo!

Clive Dove is a fallen human - his soul is Yellow, representing Justice. Clive was an investigative, resourceful former orphan who discovered the entrance into the Underground out of simple curiosity and fell into it with no way of knowing that he would not be able to return. Though he missed his home and his adopted mother Constance, he was quickly adopted by Toriel, who took him in as one of her own.

Clive at first wanted to go home, but as the years passed with Toriel, he became more and more attached to her. In his research and through talking with Toriel, he learned about Asgore’s war on humanity, his murder of the former humans before him, and that humans had sealed the monsters underground. He became furious both at Asgore, for his perceived cowardice in not seeking “justice” against the humans by crossing the barrier himself, and at humanity for sealing the monsters away. 

His research also found that human beings whose souls that were absorbed by monsters would form a being of unimaginable power... and that this could also work in reverse. With that in mind, he hatched a plan to take revenge on humanity. First, he studied and took on the appearance of the first fallen human, Chara. Then, he left Toriel behind and, in disguise as Chara, traveled to New Home, where he could meet Asgore.

When Asgore saw him, he was overjoyed to find that Chara had returned from the dead, considering it a miracle. Clive did not give Asgore long enough to see through his disguise - knowing that Asgore was caught off guard, he drew a toy revolver and shot him, his intent to kill causing Asgore to die instantly. He then absorbed Asgore’s soul and crossed the barrier.

However, in the time that he had been underground, Clive had forgotten about his adoptive mother Constance. Before he was able to use the power of Asgore’s soul to kill a single human, a tearful Constance approached him, overjoyed to be reunited with her son. Clive broke down in tears, his desire for revenge forgotten, and returned to live the rest of his days with her... unaware of the damage he had wreaked on the Underground by killing its king.

[poemsfromearthsea]

The Roots of the Sky

Past the place where the roots of the sunset drip like spilled wine into the sea -- past the golden blur of the sun on the treetops -- past the dark line that wavers where sand vanishes into sky -- there was a city. In the forges of this city they worked great bellows that breathed fire into the coals where the sun came to rest every night. In the airy rafters of its high buildings, weavers spun clouds and sent them sailing from the rooftops into the sky. The dyers in the little shops along the streets mixed blues, azure and cerulean and midnight, and laid colors at the bottom of the sky to bleed along its lengths. 

Never was that city without a song. All along its waterfronts, in the bright-painted houses stacked one on top of the other, from windows where clotheslines flapped in the breeze or plants drooped lazily over the street, under bridges where rafts floated along the river with cargoes of rainwater and dye, and in the festival streets where the whole city thronged three times a week, notes rang out from harp and fife, fiddle and throat. Songs older than the sun. Songs a grandmother sang at bedtime. Songs new-hatched, warbling uncertainly into the world on unfledged wings.

 A favorite song for friends and lovers -- for anyone who cared, really -- was sounded perhaps more than any other.

And if you go out roaming, And if you find the sea, Gather up its waters And bring them home to me.

Ixi leaned over the river to catch the box Helador was handing her. She liked it here, at the very edge of the city where the sky curled long pale tendrils into the earth, waiting to be watered. You could feel space hovering just past that thin membrane of faded blue. She took the last box from Helador and then took their hand and helped them climb over the tall wooden river wall. 

They sang as they unpacked the bottles of dye, and sang as they poured it over the roots of the heavens, one bottle at a time. No words passed between them except those of the song, which met in long-memorized harmonies between them and communicated their constancy -- I’m here, you’re here: we are here, together.

And if you ever travel Alone on human ground, Gather up their stories And carry me their sound.

The air was very bright and green, and spring might finally be winding its way across the cold city. The air was still sharp and cold yesterday, but the way snowmelt is cold, melting into puddles and feeding the grass. 

And so the blue bled into the sky, and verdancy stitched itself slowly into the air, and Ixi and Helador sang songs until they swung back onto their raft, hands patched cerulean and drying in the sun.

“Helador,” said Ixi, handing them a rafting pole. Not a question.

They smiled and began to sing.

And Ixi if you wander Beneath a sky of blue, Remember I am waiting-- Waiting here for you.

“Unfair,” she said, scrambling to sit on the edge of the raft. “I can’t put your name in the song.”

“Afraid of adventuring without me, Ixi?”

“Not at all. I want you to have all the glory while I stay home.”

“Martyr. I know you’d rather leave here than I would.”

They lapsed into silence, and the river slid blue-green-amber under the raft. Ixi’s hair swept backward in the wind, a dull gold banner. The great jewel was high in the colorless sky and Helador passed the rafting pole to her and took her seat at the front of the raft.

Slowly, the heavy evening silence was broken by the warbling sounds of a hundred songs, and they knew they were nearing the city. Helador stood up and danced to the sound of a fiddle that drifted over the water, ducking round Ixi and under her pole, and she grinned and set it down a moment, letting them drift while she placed her palm on Helador’s, the other behind her back, and they danced a clock-path as the dome-keepers hauled the great jewel down on its invisible ropes.

And if you go out roaming, And if you find the sea, Gather up its waters And bring them home to me.

Helador’s mother sang on the wharf as they poled in and moored the raft. A wavering line of heat swam over the city, rising up from the great forge, and the cooling sphere of the sun sank, red-hot, into it.

“I do want to see the sun set from up above,” yawned Helador as they walked away from the docks. Their mother shot them a look, and Ixi smiled at the ground.

The doors of the forge shut with a resounding clang. The air trembled and the familiar vibration shot through the ground. Thoughtless, by instinct, Ixi caught Helador’s hand, and Helador took their mother’s arm, and the three of them stood, anchoring each other, for just a moment before they broke apart. 

Line upon line of little glass spheres, lit from inside by white candles, slid on their rusting tracks and filled the dome with a light that might have been starlight, if you had never seen the stars. 

Helador’s house leaned over the street, a dusky blue shadow lit faintly from within. It was late, and they were tired, and their mother nodded at Ixi to remind her that she could stay the night. And so the shadow of the house swallowed the shadows on the street, and the mechanical hum of the city carried on in the dark. 

Inside the house it was warm and dimly lit by candlelight. Helador’s mother walked from doorway to doorway, lighting the lamps so that they could walk through without disturbing the transformatory spirits that lurked in every threshold. Helador went to the stove and fed the flame under the pot simmering there, and Ixi gathered bowls and spoons, stopping on her way to the cutlery to lean over Helador’s shoulder and stir the soup, a hand over his.

At dinner Helador and Ixi talked quietly about the overworld, trying to sort legend from fact and rumor from reality. Helador’s mother shook her head at their imaginings but put in a word here and there -- the common myths when she was a child that had since died out.

Ixi lay at the foot of Helador’s bed and counted the lights on their ceiling. An old game. She knew how many there were but she counted them again, as though the number might have changed. As through Helador had added more when her back was turned. “Let’s not die without seeing the stars,” she said.

“Aiming for immortality, Ixi?”

“That was uncharacteristically pessimistic of you.”

“My mother’s influence.”

“Hmm. I bet there’s a way.” She yawned. “Maybe we could ride the sun.”

“It’s on fire,” Helador noted.

“Good point. Maybe we could climb the sky.”

"There aren’t footholds.”

Ixi sighed. “Maybe we should go to sleep.”

“Goodnight, Ixi, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“If the sky isn’t blue,” she replied.

“If the stars stay the same.”

"If the sun isn’t true.”

The old lullaby finished, Ixi pulled a blanket round herself and fell asleep. And when her breathing filled the tiny room, Helador followed her.

In the morning, the glass stars trundled down their threading and the great jewel rose instead of the sun in the sky, now dyed a blank blue. Ixi and Helador woke and smiled at one another. And Helador’s father’s voice swam in through the bedroom door.

Welcome to the Festival, You’ll find here what you may; Things from nigh and things from yon And things from far away.

Ixi grinned. “I’d forgotten today was a festival day!”

Helador took her hands and they half-tumbled, half-leapt out of bed, still in their work clothes from the day before. “You still have clothes here,” Helador yawned, and Ixi found the corner of their closet where she had stashed extra clothing for these occasions. A blue sundress, auspicious in color and symbolism. They crossed their hands briefly over each other’s hearts, a sign for happiness, and stepped over the threshold for breakfast.

There was cinnamon cooking somewhere in the kitchen, and the shouts of the festival already drifted through the window. “Can we leave?” asked Helador. Their father raised an eyebrow at them. “Please?” They hurried to cross their hands over their father’s heart and grab cinnamon rolls for themself and Ixi.

Helador’s father rolled his eyes and nodded, shooing them out the door, and they ran with a shout into the light and color of the festival. Music blossomed like a rainforest, flooding the air. Vendors hawked their wares from every corner, and Helador and Ixi tossed bronze coins, flashing, back and forth to one another until they found something they wanted to buy. A necklace, a bright scarf, a jar of raspberry candy. Laughing down to the pier. Ixi flung herself toward the edge of the water, catching a piling and swinging out over the amber river. The world was full of light. 

And the days stretched on, stained blue. Helador collected scraps of wood, determined to build a glider so that they could coast upward on the hot air rising from the setting sun. Ixi took on an apprenticeship with a blacksmith and quit and wasn’t sure what to do with herself. They met by morning and evening, swimming in the river and running home barefoot, leaving dark footprints behind on the hot street. 

They sang the summer away. In the fall, Helador set aside their glider and shouldered a pack, bound for the academy. Ixi, who had given up on school a year ago, practiced weaving and pottery, trying to find something to sell. When dark settled into the creaking sky, layers and layers of darkness falling like gauzy shawls over the summer’s fading blue, two shadows swung past the lampposts, dancing a lopsided dance along the street and down toward the dock where they met. 

Helador brought their books and told Ixi anything she deemed worth knowing from the day’s lessons; Ixi brough tales from the workshop, the warehouse, and the streets. Feral cats and breaking equipment and over-entitled customers. 

And before the great jewel sank fully out of sight -- before the clang of the forge echoed like some forgotten god’s dying breath over the trembling rooftops -- they sang one last song quietly out over the water, their voices tangling together, low and high and gravelly and sweet.

And if you go out roaming, In darkness or in light, Catch a star or catch a cloud And bring it in my sight;

And since you are my dearest friend, And since the sky is blue, I’ll gather up the ocean And I’ll bring it home to you.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” said Ixi one evening.

“I never want to. Where would we go instead?”

“The overworld,” she yawned.

Helador laughed a quiet, scoffing laugh that puffed out into the air and died over the river. “The overworld,” they repeated.

“It can’t be impossible.”

“Yes it can.”

“It shouldn’t be.” 

Helador shifted slightly in the dusk. And slowly they stood up, and gathered their blankets, and headed home in silence through the thickening dark.

Helador broke that winter. Caught in the grips of a fever, they had wandered to the harbor to watch the sunset when a horse run rampant caught them beneath its hooves, breaking their  bones and leaving the pale cobblestones stained with their blood. The doctors said: they will not walk again. More quietly, the doctors said: I fear they will not live long at all.

Ixi sat at their bedside and wept only when they were not looking. When they were looking she smiled, and held their hand, and sang the song for the flying, a song of birds and butterflies and anything with wings.

Hold yourself aloft by hope, Sing the death of fear, Flyer in the empty blue, Hold my promise near.

Snatch the sky and set it free, And let the rain be bright. Take the sun between your wings, And sing me safe and right.

It was a childish song. A nursery rhyme. A lullaby. When Ixi sang it, it was better than anything. And Helador burned and shook but somewhere in them her voice caught a knot that was trying to unravel and held it steady, and so they were broken but did not fall to pieces.

But the wing of their glider was poking out from beneath their bed, and the fraying edges of the fabric brushed by night against their tired will until one day they told Ixi to drag it out and hold it up for them.

“Helador, why?” she asked, fearful reproach too evident in her tone.

They only raised an eyebrow at her, and she laughed ruefully because the gesture was so familiar and so sad.

"It’s nearly finished. You need to let me tell you how to finish it.”

And she opened her mouth to protest.

And she closed her mouth, because they were Helador and she was Ixi and there was nothing she would have refused them in the world of the living.

Outside Helador’s sickroom, their blood faded and melted into the cobbles under the light of the great orb, rising and setting in feeble mockery of the sun. Some other children poled rafts to and from the edges of the sky, and it was as blue as ever but there was no song in it; Helador’s rough tenor had not sounded a melody in months, and Ixi’s voice belonged now only to them.

And when the doors of the forge had shut and shuddered the world twenty-seven times, and the snow that was not snow had begun to melt, Ixi kissed Helador on the forehead and walked out into the street with a glider under her arm and tears crowding behind her eyes, forbidden to fall.

There was a black shadow, so small only three people noticed it, that crossed the hot red light of the orb as it set that day. A small boy dancing to his father’s flute saw it and laughed; a woman hanging clothes outside her window blinked at it and turned away; and Helador saw it, just barely, from their window. And they smiled.

And somewhere above it all, under a sky that bled real rain and a sun that burned hotter and brighter and deeper than the great orb ever could, above an ocean that smelled of salt and reflected a blue that nobody had had to dye into the sky, Ixi swooped low and screamed a desperate, hopeless, unfathomable joy at doing the impossible without Helador.

She gathered up the waters of this wild, unending, untamable ocean and swooped down again through a crack in the sky, and she brought them home to Helador. 

[happy-haunts]

Constance Hatchaway (Pt.1)

Constance Hatchaway (pt.1)

WARNING THIS STORY CONTAINS THEMES OF ABUSE AND VIOLENCE! WARNING THIS STORY CONTAINS THEMES OF ABUSE AND VIOLENCE! BE AWARE BEFORE YOU CONTINUE.

Chapter one | Constance pt.1 : Constance pt.2

Chapter two | Mister Topper pt.1 : Mister Topper pt.2

Chapter three | Madame Leota pt.1 : Madame Leota pt.2

Chapter four | The Hostess

Chapter five | Captain Blood pt.1 : Captain Blood pt.2

Chapter six | Emily DeClaire pt.1 : Emily DeClaire pt.2 : Emily DeClaire pt.3

Chapter seven | Finale

————

Most of us in the mansion were actually around at the same time - that is the original happy haunts of course. If I had to put it in order I would say - Disembodied Voice was first, followed by Emily, Hatty, Madame Leota, The ballroom ghosts, the graveyard ghosts, The Hitchhikers, Myself (Constance), and then our lovely Red. At this point of course you may be wondering why this is important? And that is a very good question but I implore you to keep reading since you will soon be wishing the questions only stopped at the first.

For now my story starts in that little town of Liberty square, I lived in one of the small houses there along the river with my mother- a widow to my late father whom of which had died in the Civil War fighting to keep the South alive, the way my mother tells it she says he died a hero but I remember reading his letter ... He was running away from the battle and was shot in the back.

Nevertheless I hardly knew my father when he died and as rude as it must sound I never thought much about him.

My mother was always there for me and she seemed to act as both parents just fine - making her own money and living in the house that father left her in his will. It wasn’t until I became a young woman that her compensation for the lack of a father turned into “Have you been seeing any new boys recently, Constance?” Or “You know that Ambrose boy seems to think quite sweetly of you.”

But I didn’t care about Ambrose, I didn’t care about any of the boys in town - unlike the other girls in town I didn’t want a husband... I wanted a wife.

And my god was there a girl in town I couldn’t take my eyes off of! She was so small and her skin was a light brown - the color of caramel from the sweet’s store, her eyes looked like the sky, while her dark brown hair draped heavy over her shoulders that framed her heart shaped face. If I would have known ... I would have tried harder... If I just would have known...

But I suppose it wouldn’t have actually mattered, mother wouldn’t have it if I started courting her, all she talked about was Ambrose this and Ambrose that! The farmer boy from California - the boy who was pining after me and how rude I was for not giving the boy an inch. It wasn’t MY fault that he was pining after me, so why should I indulge his advances when I didn’t want them in the first place?

But that didn’t matter to mother - she eventually told Ambrose that he may have my hand in marriage (because evidently my permission didn’t matter) and wouldn’t you know I was married off just at the beginning of my eighteenth year.

Ambrose did his “best” as a husband, he insisted on my staying home and that I didn’t need concern myself with the town’s life anymore - he was effectively shutting me inside to clean all day and wait like a dog to bring him his dinner.

About a month or two into the marriage and I was going mad from staying inside, the walls felt like they were closing into me and I could have sworn I heard whispers of the townsfolk in my ears! I had to leave that day- I had to!

———-

Today was my lucky day, The girl I had been longing to ever talk to was making her way down the street in a purple and white striped gown, in her hair she had knotted several white flowers - almost like she tumbled down a hill covered in wildflowers - She was breathtaking. It was the kick in the pants that I needed to finally make my way across the street and talk to her to at least find out her name.

“Hello, um are you new to town?” I asked, finally catching up to her fast pace - she turned to face me with a flustered red blush coloring her cheeks.

“Er- YES! Um no! I meant no, I didn’t mean yes as in Yes I’m new I meant like Yes? How can I help you? Eh...” She was fumbling over herself - it was kind of cute to watch but I decided to chime in to keep her from her embarrassment.

“Oh no- no! I understand don’t worry! I also apologize - I never caught your name? I’m Constance Hatch- um Harper.”

“A pleasure to meet you, I’m Emily ...DeClaire.”

[imagine-your-nonhuman-fo]

i think my first non human f/o was constance hatch away from the haunted mansion

my favorite thing about these asks is googling who the fuck y’all are talking aboutanyway she is so cute

[theheadlessgroom]

"HOW DARE YOU?" the black widow screeched as she stumbled back, "How could a pig like you DARE to spit at a lady? I don't know what you said, but the fact that you had the GALL to speak your hideous language to me repulsive! Step away before you give me your diseases, you rat- Before I MAKE you!" She raised a hand in the air, prompting her notorious hatched to materialize in her grip. She held it high above her head, as if to say, 'Test me and I'll find a way to kill you again.'

“You,” he snapped, glaring coldly at her as he took a step back, watching to make sure she didn’t take a swing at him with the ax. “are no lady, Constance! If you were, you wouldn’t be such a murderous old crone!” He gripped his cane in case he needed to use it to defend himself, adding with a bit of a grin, “You’ll never be a lady. You’ll always be an evil old bat who likes to play dress up with stolen dresses and jewelry. You’ll never be a high-class dish like my wife.”

He loved to rib her like this, to take potshots at her attempts to play herself up as an upperclasswoman, knowing it was such an easy way to rile her up-especially when she was unfavorably compared to Emily. The daughter of a wealthy landowner who left her bedazzled world behind for a lower-class man, and yet she never lost her manners or morals in the process. Unlike Constance, who put up an air of finery, but was nothing more than a hellcat in a wedding dress.

[mazurah]

Find the Word Tag Game

tagged by @spine-y ​

rules: find the four words in your writing, and then pick four more that other people need to find in theirs.

Your words to find: urgent, grimace, hollow, and beam

URGENT:

As the figure down the path grew more distinct, the party was met with a strange sight. An orange, tiger-striped Khajiit in a tall yellow Colovian fur hat and a flamboyant puffy-sleeved outfit panted his way down the road, pursued by a Dwemer Centurion Sphere. As the curious pair drew close, the sphere thrust out with it’s sword-like arm. The Khajiit dodged, but lost his balance and fell sprawling into the dirt road in front of the party. Ma’zurah promptly disabled the sphere with a well placed ice spike.

Julan reached out a hand to assist the Khajiit to his feet. The Khajiit adjusted his tall, eye-searing yellow hat and dusted himself off. “Many thanks.” he addressed them. “This one also apologizes, for he cannot stop to chat. He is on a most urgent mission to find calipers. The kind strangers would not happen to know where some could be found, would they?”

The party stared at him.

“Uh…” Constance began. “No…?”

“Ah. Well. Khajiit offers his thanks anyway. If you are ever in the Sheogorad region, you simply must come visit. This one may often be found on a small island east of Dagon Fel. If you seek knowledge, this one has much. Some of it verified by actual facts! Khajiit bids you good day. He must be off. Warm sands!”

The strange Khajiit puffed off at a jog, and the three stood in the middle of the road and stared after him until his figure was indistinct again.

“What… what just happened?” Constance plaintively asked.

Ma’zurah began to giggle. Julan looked at Constance’s flummoxed face and began snickering as well.

“I… just… the clothes…” Constance spluttered, already half laughing. “And an urgent mission…? …for calipers…? And the sphere… what? ...where…?” She broke down in fits of giggles.

The laughter escalated until all three of them were howling with laughter in the middle of the empty road.

“Sheogorath on a silt strider! That…” Julan gasped, wiping away a tear of mirth. “That's the stupidest hat I ever saw!”

(From Ma’zurah, Azurah, and the Birth of the Khajiit)

GRIMACE:

“Come on, dumpling, don't be shy,” the Imperial encouraged with a smile that Ma’zurah suspected was supposed to be charming, but only came across as creepy. “Just do this one little favor for Uncle Crassius.”

Ma’zurah’s whiskers twitched. “Must Ma’zurah?”

The Imperial shrugged. “Well of course you don’t have to, sweetie, but if you want my sponsorship…”

Ma’zurah suppressed a grimace. The man didn’t need to finish the sentence. She knew he was likely her only chance for sponsorship in House Hlaalu. Without his backing, she would be unable to obtain any more work, and her rising career in House Hlaalu would stall.

(From Hlaalu Dilemma)

HOLLOW:

“Julan, outsider, we have seen two white Khajiit recently, but only one remains at the camp. You may approach the camp if you will attempt to convince her to leave.”

Julan’s eyebrows rose at this unexpected development, and he agreed. They escorted him to the center of their small circle of yurts, and presented him to a young looking Khajiiti girl in odd, revealing, but formal looking clothing. Even without confirmation from Ma'zurah, he could tell she was another moon cursed Khajiit.

Julan blinked at her. Wooden wind chimes sounded hollowly in the background. The unfamiliar Khajiit cocked her head at him and sent the gulakhan a hesitant, questioning look. Zabamund stood stoically to the side with his arms crossed.

(From Betrayal and Reconciliation)

BEAM:

“I got ‘em as eggs from Morrowind. Hatched ‘em myself!” Ambarys beamed, still holding his pets’ collars. “This here’s Dalder, and that one’s Hla’jul.” He nodded at the durzog and the nix hound in turn. “I trained ‘em to be real friendly. Wouldn’t do to have anybody want to have ‘em put down cause they don’t understand ‘em, y’know?”

The nix hound chittered, and the durzog lolled its tongue out the side of its mouth.

(From Lost in Time)

-

I’m only putting one excerpt per word because I have a lot of writing, and this would be much longer if I tried to use every instance of the words.

@talldarkandroguesome I choose you! Find the words obscene, bitter, impede, and truthful.

[dailyaudiobible]

05/16/2019 DAB Transcript

1 Samuel 18:5-19:24, John 8:31-59, Psalms 112:1-10, Proverbs 15:12-14

Today is the 16th day of May. Welcome to the Daily Audio Bible. I’m Brian and it's good to be here with you as we move toward the back half of the week or move into the back half of the week. And, like we’ve been saying, we’re kind of simultaneously moving through the back half of the book of first Samuel, which is full of drama and intrigue and incredible lessons for our own lives as we watch the intertwining of King Saul and this new kid that's kind of come on the scene named David. And, so, we’ll pick up with the story where we left off yesterday. We’re reading from the Voice Translation this week. First Samuel chapter 18 verse 5 through 19 verse 24 today.

Commentary:

Okay. So, anytime you have like royalty or any kind of dignitaries coming through town, right, there's usually going to be some sort of crowd. Usually there’d be some sort of speech too, but there’s gonna be some sort of crowd and that's been going on throughout history. So, like, even today if royalty or a leader of a nation makes a visit then their arrivals gonna be covered on the news. Depending on how how connected they are to the people, there’ll be throngs of people, right? Like, if Britain's royalty comes to the United States or something and they’ve got the kids, there's gonna be all kinds of people. So, it was no different for King Saul when he returned victorious in battle. There was a celebration, there was pageantry, there were people, there was dancing, there were all kinds of people who wanted to get a glimpse of the king, but after David killed Goliath the song that the young women were singing at these…at this pageantry was that Saul had killed thousands but David had killed tens of thousands, which, of course, freaked Saul out. He already was fragile and very afraid of what people thought, right? We’ve watched that throughout the story of Saul and his coronation. So, he's freaked out about this and he ends up saying like, “what's left? what's left for David, but just to take the kingdom?” And, so, this made Saul very insecure and jealousy was planted in that fertile soil and then rage, and Saul tried to kill David with a spear. Of course, David now…we’re kind of watching him come up on the other side of this story and he's just trying to figure out what is going on because he's gone from complete obscurity to like this national hero and he keeps getting assigned tasks by the king, and he has access to the king and it's just like he's a lowly person. So, he’s just trying to figure out what's going on, but he has learned quickly how to protect himself, right, like how to stay alive. It’s not that he wasn't learning this is a shepherd, but now he's like, he has to become a warrior to survive. His life has changed dramatically, and Saul keeps hatching these plots to send David into battle, hoping that the someone else, and normally it’s the Philistines, will kill David and then it's just over and they can have national morning but that'll be the end of David. And he's trying to marry David into the family, like he's trying everything he can to control David without realizing that David's loyal. Like David’s not trying to do anything but to support the king, but Saul's paranoia and fear of man and jealousy and rage have absolutely got the best of him. And, so he keeps coming up with these plans to kill David. And, so he's like, “okay, you can marry my daughter, Michael. I just need the foreskins of 100 Philistines.” Okay. That is the strangest bride price ever. And David goes out and gets 200 foreskins and it’s so weird because did they circumcise all these guys like after the killed them and bring their foreskins back or did they just have a basket full of manhood's, which is probably more true to what happened but even still, like you come in before the king and you’ve got a basket full of manhood's, 200 of them. How to you…I mean...I don't know…how do you celebrate that victory? Is everybody in the palace dancing in circles around the basket? Like, who knows. It’s just a strange bride price but David pays it and the plan was that David would get killed trying to pay that bride price but instead he’s successful. And, so, Michal, who’s Saul's daughter, who loves David is married to David and now David is the king's son-in-law, but Saul still wants to kill him, and he is willing to kill him right in his own bed. So, we see just how intermeshed and entangled and messed up the relationship is between Saul and David. But we can find ourselves in both of these men's lives. I mean, there are times that we truly do shine and then there are times that we are completely disconnected from ourselves and all of our relationships and both Saul and David knew who the God of Israel was, both of these guys, even though they’re acting completely different to the circumstances. Both of them worshiped God, but Saul's insecurity and jealousy pulled him continually away from God while David fundamentally new that God was his only possible hope for survival. And we see those kinds of things coming out in the Psalms of David. So, the men's lives at this point, they are irreversibly intertwined, like there's no way to go back to how things used to be when the king didn't even know who David was. So, their lives are intertwined, but they are on comp completely different and divergent paths with God and we should pay close attention to where those two paths lead because we can find ourselves in both of these people's character. And, so, we can also take their story and find out where their paths go as we choose our path forward. All of our insecurities, right, all our comparison are only gonna continue to plague us and they’ll eventually cause chaos and destruction in our lives or we can realize as David is realizing, there is no way to survive, there is no hope outside of utter dependence on God. So, let's think as we move through this day. Which path am I even on because it's never too late to change course.

Prayer:

Father, we invite You into that. We can see the characteristics in these two people in our own lives. We can be both of these people with both of these kinds of characteristics on the same day. And, so, we recognize that, and we invite Your Holy Spirit to continue to illuminate through the story found in first Samuel of Saul and David which path we are on and to give us clarity on where these paths lead so that we understand where it is were going to end up if we stay on the path that we’re on. Come Holy Spirit we pray. In the name of Jesus, we ask. Amen.

Announcements:

dailyaudiobible.com, is the website, its home base, its where you find out what's going on around here. So, be sure to stay tuned, stay connected in any way that you can. Check out the Community section dailyaudiobible.com for all of the different links to all the different social media channels where…and it's a good idea…it's a good idea to follow us on Twitter or Facebook or Instagram, wherever…wherever it is the that you like to be because we post updates there, things like what song was played and links to the songs when we play songs and announcements if we’re having any issues, technical issues, or otherwise, any other things that are going on. It’s a good place to stay connected. So, check that out.

If you want to partner with the Daily Audio Bible, you can do that dailyaudiobible.com. There’s a link, it's on the homepage. Thank you profoundly for your partnership. If you're using the Daily Audio Bible app you can press the Give button in the upper right hand corner or, if you prefer, the mailing address is PO Box 1996 Spring Hill Tennessee 37174.

And, as always, if you have a prayer request or comment, 877-942-4253 is the number to dial.

And that is it for today. I'm Brian I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Community Prayer and Praise:

Hello, this is Lori Music. What a great God we serve? Actually, I used to call myself the transplant from Chicago down to Heber Springs Arkansas and now I just usually say Lori Music from Heber Springs, but I just wanted to reach out. Nine years ago, a lovely young lady with the name of Constance called in and Constance I just want to let you know I am still praying for you. I am still believing for God’s favor for you and your marriage. I am pleading the blood of Jesus over you. I am praying over your atmosphere, that you have warring angels fighting against the principalities of the air to keep you safe from any harm that may come your way. So, Constance know that you’re loved, and I pray that you’re still listening to DAB. And Jerry from Duluth Minnesota, it was such a delight to hear from you again. I always enjoyed hearing from you when you’re on your paper route. So, thanks so much for calling back in. That really touched my soul. And to all you DABbers, keep calling in, such wonderful memories and we’re such a huge family and even though I don’t call in much know that I am praying for each and every one. So, God bless, have a blessed day.

Well, hello from beautiful Cincinnati Ohio this is Daniel Johnson Junior. It’s been a while since I called last. Been listening to the DAB for…actually it’s going on my 10th year been getting ready to begin my 10th year. I remember June 2009. But I just wanted to call in a couple of things. Tamika, I’m just praying for you. The situation that you’re finding yourself in is definitely…it’s definitely hard, but it’s definitely…you know…the thing that Brian has revealed to us as he’s gone through the Scriptures over the years with us is…and I hope that you understand…is that God is always at work to redeem us. You know, as long as we are alive, our story is not over. And I think that’s something…that is encouragement that I take on for myself constantly and I think that’s important for us to remember, that God is never done with us and he can work through any situation. As we’re reading even in the Scriptures how He’s worked through the situations that we’ve gone through already. And I wanted to encourage you with that. Also, Jerry from Duluth Minnesota, I heard your call on Tuesday, May the 14th and I just…you just brought back a sense of joy into my heart just to hear you calling again and I just wanted to say thanks for calling in and keeping up with DAB. And then guys if you could just pray for me. Two years ago, I had to say goodbye to my stepsister who was found dead, you know, and just…this is the anniversary of that. My stepmother, with it being Mother’s Day…its been a rough weekend. So, if you could just keep me in your prayers, my family, my sister-in-law, my wife’s sister, also was her birthday and she’s no longer here either. And, so, it’s just a bittersweet time for us. The grief has been kind of hard for me. So, guys I love you, God is so good all the time, all the time God is good. May God bless us and bless you. So, make it a great day.

Good morning DAB family, this is Patty from sunny Southern California. I have a horse sanctuary ministry. I’ve been listening since September of 2007 and I just love this program and I love the prayers afterwards and kind of getting to know people and I just heard Jerry the mail carrier call after being gone for such a long time. Welcome back! And he mentioned someone I think about often, Natasha from New York. What ever happened to you girl? Well out of all of you - Brian, Jill, Blind Tony, the prayer warriors - but I was just moved with Jerry’s call because it was an old familiar voice. Now I know I don’t call that often. I’m gonna try to do it a little more often. I love my DAB family. God bless you all.

Hello DAB family this is Abiding in Him. I want to pray for Mark Street and his son William. Heavenly Father we thank You for Your love and for Your faithfulness. We thank You for Your grace and Your mercy. And we thank You Lord that You wake us up every day with a purpose, a reason, and that You haven’t let a single one of us slip through Your hands. Heavenly Father we lift up William to You, __ loss, in his own mind, and in his own heart Lord, loss and depression heavenly Father, that he is not lost from You. Oh Lord, reach down into this Young man’s heart heavenly Father and grip it in a way that nothing else can. Not any of the addictions that try to capture our Youth or any of the entertainments that try to take their hearts away heavenly Father. Grip him in a way that only You can because You made his heat. And You know it. You know exactly what he needs to hear, when he needs to hear, and how he needs to hear it heavenly Father. And, so, Lord hear the prayer of his Father whose come requesting You and asked us to lift up our voices to You, heavenly Father for You to intervene. He is ultimately Your child Lord. Grab him, bring him home, open up his ears to good counsel, open up his mind to wisdom, open up his heart to love, and give his father patience. Know that You’re working in his heart and that You will bring that work to fruition. We thank You Lord for all that You’ve done and all that You will do on William’s life. We thank You Lord the testimony that You’re building in him. We give You glory because You’re a worthy God. You are all good all the time. We thank You Lord for Your grace and mercy in Jesus’ name.

[alexsbrain]

Ocean’s 8

    The other night my brother and I went to the Carlton in Toronto to catch Ocean’s 8. I had stayed away from the film for a few weeks, I’d caught a few review headlines since it opened, dud, fizzled out, and franchise fatigue had cropped up a few times. When I first saw the publicity still last year, of all the women on the subway, I was amazed that a bunch of my favourite actresses, comedians, and pop singer (Rhianna) were all doing a film together and I put it on my list. I was pleasantly surprised by Ocean’s’8, it was a lot quirkier and funnier than I thought it would be, and occasionally I had to wipe away a tear from laughing.

Early publicity still

    The film follows the standard heist format pioneered by post war noir filmmakers. The star, Sandra Bullock, plays Debbie Ocean (Danny Ocean’s sister), and after hatching a scheme in prison for, “five years, eight months, and twelve days,” is released and has to put together a crack-pot team in order to steal a Cartier necklace worth over a hundred-million dollars. There are the typical vignettes of Ocean assembling her team, there’s her former partner turned nightclub owner (Cate Blanchette), the hacker 9-ball (Rihanna), a kleptomaniacal fence (Sarah Paulson), the jewelry expert (Mandy Kaling), the down and out fashion designer (Helena Bonham Carter), and the street wise pick pocket (Awkwafina). Together they execute Ocean’s daring plan to steal the necklace at the Met Gala. There are a few twists and turns in the plot which brings in an insurance agent from England, played by James Corden, to find the jewels. The audience is brought into the action through a series of well timed gags and hair-raising moments of suspense.

Hathaway and Bonham Carter at the Met Gala

    I’m a huge fan of heist films, there’s something about the sub-genre that appeals to me. Going all the way back to the Noir heists The Asphalt Jungle, and the French film Rafifi, I’m a sucker for a group of criminals trying to make one last big score. I wasn’t however a huge fan of the original Ocean movies, nor of the Soderbergh reboot. Which is why I was pleasantly surprised that this installment was so good and incredibly funny. It felt like I was watching an old comedy with Carol Lombard or Rosalind Russell, the comedic power of some of these actresses shines through in almost every scene. Helena Bonham Carter has some of the best reactions I’ve seen in years, her subtle head and eye movements executed just at the right time cracked me up, she wears a puzzled look on her face for most of the film which is incredibly endearing. Bonham Carter, being the veteran English actor of the bunch, even knows how to get all the mileage out of a costume during the Met gala, as she moves about in a bizarre outfit in such a way that makes it hilarious. She’s even poking fun at herself as she has been known for some odd fashion choices over the years at red carpet events. Sarah Paulson is very reserved but incredibly funny, her character, a waspy housewife, always seems to be on the brink of loosing her cool façade (she never does), and it’s fascinating to watch her play a mother role in a heist film. Some of her jokes were visual gags that were set up beautifully. The young Awkwafina gets most of the laughs as the street wise hustler, her role had the most potential for comedy, and she relishes every single moment she is on screen. She knows exactly when to hold a joke, letting in linger in the air, something most comedians don’t understand today. It’s not that you have to be funny all the time, it’s that you have to understand the rhythm of a joke. There’s a touch of Leslie Neilson or Bea Arthur in her comedic pauses.

Awkwafina as Constance shines

     Anne Hathaway steals some of the show as the vapid gum chewing movie star Daphne Kluger. Her timing is incredibly precise, she uses her gum chewing and big beautiful eyes to really sell her jokes, chewing on her pauses and delivering her lines with surgical precision. I think Hathaway needs to do more comedy outside of the schlocky rom-com type of humour that is ill fitting for her and reboot some the old Carol Lombard type plots that are entirely missing from cinema today.

    What was surprisingly nice was that the two headliners, Sandra Bullock and Cate Blanchette, never once took the spotlight away from someone else. They played their roles effectively and knew how to share the stage with the supporting cast allowing each of the others to grab some laughs and shine in their roles. If anything, the film was missing one good fight between Bullock and Blanchette. It would have been nice to add just a little tension between the two characters early on in the film, the should we do this scene was flat and self aggrandizing in their sisterly bond.

    Ocean’s 8 was co-written and directed by Gary Ross who’s resume includes Big, Pleasantville, and Mr. Baseball (one of my favorite cinematic guilty pleasures). He knows exactly how to set up a joke or a gag and executes it beautifully. What I found interesting is that most of the audience didn’t laugh at some of the funniest moments in the film. It seemed my brother and I, and a group of friends behind us, were the only ones who got the subtle jokes. I think one of the problems is that audiences today aren’t used to the subtly of reactions and visual gags. My favourite moment in the film is when Sarah Paulson’s character is introduced. She is living in the idyll of suburban America and making a healthy green smoothie when Debbie Ocean calls her, her son playing in the background. Answering the phone, she says, “Buddy do you want to stop that,” the threat is implied. Debbie tells her she’s in her garage and when Paulson walks into her garage there are boxes and boxes of stolen goods. It’s such a wonderful joke, that here in this perfect suburban house lies a kleptomaniacal fence. When Debbie asks her what she tells her husband about all the stolen goods Paulson replies dryly and at just the right moment, “eBay,” I couldn’t help but crack up at her delivery.

The perfect life, the perfect house, a life of crime

    The other problem plaguing the film is it’s underwhelmingly simplistic visual style. The camera moves and cuts competently enough, but the whole style is reminiscent of a de-contrasted Instagram photo or a mediocre Tumblr mood board. It’s a problem shared with a lot of commercial films these days, lackluster shadow-less vistas of muted colours that lacks any texture or depth. One thing that made last years The Florida Project so appealing was its rich palette and crisp composition, great care was taken at figuring out the mise-en-scène. It’s disappointing that the Ocean’s films, being reboots of the iconic 60’s jet set era, don’t devote more effort to their visual look. There was one sequence in a post-modern airport for a fashion show, and the occasional horizontal venetian blind wipe, but aside from that, the film looks like some washed out mediocre miniseries on the FX channel.

Strong composition, but the lackluster, and washed-out lighting renders the style bland

    Ocean’s 8 isn’t pretentious or hokey, it’s just an all female version of a heist film with some incredibly talented actresses. Checking over the box office receipts, the film is doing incredibly well this summer, and along with the Black Panther, is proving to the Hollywood establishment that you can deliver a great product with an all female cast, or a cast of people of colour, or on queer themes, and still turn a tidy sum. People want to watch a good product and they want to see themselves in the characters on the screen. Aside from a few missed opportunities to set this film apart from its predecessors, it’s a fun diversion this summer. If you’re a fan of good comedic pacing, or of any of the actresses, it’s worth the price of admission.

[general-du-vallon]

post Death of a Hero, because because. I did already write an episode tag to this but i have deleted every instance of that in a fit of pique so let’s forget that. I can write as many as i like, anyway. 

“Well, I’m going to go and find my wife to kiss her again,” d’Artagnan says, getting up and looking a bit awkwardly between Porthos and Treville.

 “I have duty,” Treville says, short and sharp, and he gets up too, leading d’Artagnan out.

 Porthos looks around the empty office, thinks about Athos off with Sylvie, Aramis off meeting the queen in secret (as he surely is right now), d’Artagnan in the arms of his wife, and laughs. That hurts so he stops and turns back to the window. He breathes as deeply as he can for a while, then shakes the bitterness off and goes to find Hannah. She’s been here since about the same time as d’Artagnan showed up, stitching them up, giving them salves, looking after them. Some friend of Constance’s. Porthos hasn’t seen her since they came back from the front, he goes to knock on her door and is surprised to find it answered by a very small child, and surprised again when a slim lad with one arm comes to lift the child onto a hip. Porthos peers over the man’s shoulder.

 “Um, is Hannah…?” Porthos asks, uncertain all of a sudden. He hasn’t been hurt since returning, or not more than a scrape or bruise that Aramis or Athos hasn’t taken care of. He went to d’Artagnan with a cut once and only once: d’Artagnan’s solution was to punch Porthos in the shoulder and cheerfully suggest he use a smelly pot of something orange that was apparently a recipe of his mother’s.

 “Oh, you’re from the garrison,” the man says. “I’ll get Hannah.”

 Porthos waits, having not been invited in. Hannah comes out a few minutes later and smiles seeing him.

 “Monsieur du Vallon,” she says, drying her hands on an apron. “My husband said it was someone from the garrison, can I help?”

 “No, I’m sorry, I thought you were still…” Porthos trails off. Husband. That means the kid’s probably hers, too. He definitely should have found out who runs things around here before barging in on someone.

 “I’m still working, if that’s what you mean, Constance usually comes and knocks when I’m needed, so I can spend time with Claude and Esther. Are you injured?”

 “A broken rib, I think,” Porthos says. “I wanted someone to check my back and make sure I’ve not missed something.”

 “Come on in. Usually we’d go to the sickroom, but as it’s you,” Hannah says.

 Porthos follows her into the little house, just a few rooms, a garret really. She’s got it beautifully set up, all the things neatly sewn, everything bright and fresh and clean. He nearly falls asleep as she’s examining him but Esther comes in and distracts him. He lets her assuage her curiosity about many things. Like his beard, and his bright buttons, and the coins she finds in his boot, and is gloves. She’s not in the slightest shy but she isn’t much of a talker. Hannah’s husband comes and stands in the doorway and watches over the child, and in his attentive focus Porthos recognises him as one of the sharp shooters Porthos worked with at the front, two years ago, back at Alsace. They barely worked together for more than a few days, Porthos doesn’t refresh his memory: Lachy took out a man about to shoot Porthos, that day. He’d then got them both captured by the Spanish yelling when a ball hit him. Not that Porthos had blamed him. The wound had festered, locked in the prison there, Porthos had done his best but had been watching over a dead man until Athos and d’Artagnan hatched their foolhardy plan. Hannah must have seen to him when he returned home. But no, because Esther’s coming on three or four, surely. Porthos’s idle wondering comes to an end as Hannah decides that, as he suspected, it’s just a broken rib. Or two, according to her. And extensive bruising.

 “I’ve taken my time cleaning these cuts and grazes so they don’t infect,” she tells him, following him out.

 “I’m glad you’ve found some family,” Porthos blurts, squinting at the sun.

 “Hm,” Hannah says, hands on her hips. “He’s a good man.”

 “I know,” Porthos says. “He saved my life two years ago. He’s a damned good shot.”

 Hannah smiles, a little shy, a little uncertain. Porthos wonders if she loves Lachy. He doesn’t ask, Lachy comes out and Hannah turns, and he doesn’t need to ask. Porthos heads for his rooms, then changes tack and goes to Athos’s instead, lying face down on the bed. Athos is with Sylvie, he won’t be back for hours. Days, even. His bed is nicer than Porthos’s. He’s about to drift off when the latch lifts, sending a spike of adrenaline through him. He recognises Athos before he does anything like skewer the intruder.

 “Nearly killed you, startling me like that,” Porthos mumbles, ignoring the fact that he’s still face first in Athos’s pillow, belt and jacket and weapons discarded somewhere near the door.

 “I would have knocked,” Athos says, sarcastically.

 “Next time,” Porthos says, ignoring the sarcasm.

 He doesn’t ask about Sylvie. He can guess, he’s seen Athos with relationships before. Not necessarily romantic relationships, but relationships. He remembers, early on, Athos trying at least ten times to break away from Porthos, to persuade Porthos he wasn’t worth being friends with, wasn’t worth trusting. Wasn’t worth loving. Couldn’t love Porthos in return. Athos fits himself into the small space Porthos isn’t draped over, groans, fits his arms around Porthos in a way that doesn’t hurt, shoves and cajoles until Porthos isn’t lying on his broken ribs, and then subsides, still grumbling, against Porthos’s shoulder.

 “I hurt,” Porthos says.

 “Me too,” Athos says, fervent.

 “Today was not a good day.”

 “We didn’t die, that’s something,” Athos says.

 “I lost a good barrel of wine, that’s almost as bad,” Porthos says. Athos chuckles, scratching his fingers lightly against Porthos’s chest. “I suppose living is more important than wine."

 “What will I do with you?” Athos says, softly, catching something in Porthos’s tone.

 “More what I’m going to do with myself, now you have all found other family,” Porthos says.

 “Mm-hmm,” Athos says, unimpressed by Porthos’s misery.

 “What?”

 “Well, what shall I say to you?” Athos says. “I could tell you that you’ll always have a place, with any of us. That we share whatever we have, as always. That… you’re the truest friend I’ve ever had, the best man I’ve ever met, you have never wavered. I have no intention of losing that. Or of losing this.”

 “Sylvie’s not as patient as I am,” Porthos says, into the pillow, face pressed there to keep from laughing or crying. Or both. “Lose her if you don’t get it together.”

 “I can’t. I put her in danger. My job doesn’t allow me-”

 “Uh-uh,” Porthos says. “Not my problem.”

 “Then leave it,” Athos says. Porthos grumbles, but that’s fair so he does it wordlessly. “Broken ribs?”

 “Just one,” Porthos lies. “The same as always breaks.”

 “You could stop barrelling into fights,” Athos says.

 “You could stop nagging,” Porthos says, but without any heat.

 “I was so surprised when I realised I loved you,” Athos says. “I can’t believe how much I do, it’s ridiculous.”

 “Love isn’t kind,” Porthos says.

 “Then I promise besides,” Athos says, stubbornly. “Promise you’ll be my family until the day we die. I couldn’t throw you off now if I tried.”

 “Yeah, you’re a weakling. I’m too big,” Porthos says, leaning back into Athos. Athos hisses so Porthos quickly removes his weight. “Especially now. Useless, now.”

 Athos huffs but doesn’t refute any of that. Porthos smiles happily and goes to sleep. d'Artagnan was right: he does have good friends. He mightn’t have a wife and child yet, or any of the things d’Artagnan was dreamy over, but he has plenty of his own. Maybe Sylvie will be just patient enough and she’ll give up her sedition and have many many children who Porthos can dote on. Porthos hums, pleased with that idea. Athos probably likes Sylvie’s sedition. Probably wants to join her. Cause mischief, like Aramis. Porthos can’t exactly blame them, war tears a country apart and makes orphans and refugees, plenty there to fight over. Plenty of places that things could be done better. Porthos sighs, the gauzy image of Sylvie and Athos and himself raising many many little Athoses dispersing.

 “What now?” Athos sighs. “Are we never going to sleep, Porthos? Today has been trying.”

 “At least we’re not dead,” Porthos says. “I was just thinking. Serving my country, long and well. I’ve one good, right, Athos? In the world?”

 “You’ve done wonderfully,” Athos says, dry and irritable but no less genuine for that. Porthos nods and settles down again. “I admire the way you move through the world, my friend. Please get some rest.”

 “Let you get rest you mean,” Porthos says. “Up all hours doing who knows what.”

 Athos huffs again, tightens his arms just enough to hurt for a moment then relaxes, kissing Porthos’s shoulder. Porthos shifts and settles again, eyes heavy, gritty with dust and exhaustion. Today really was not a good day. He had thought that he might never have a child, might never meet the woman he is going to marry, might never have a family. And then, underneath, he’d been afraid. So very, very afraid. Because a trap set for them, for him and d’Artagnan and Aramis, meant danger for Athos. And Athos was alone and vulnerable, unfocussed. But Athos had come and hauled him out and held him for a moment, and now Porthos rests in his arms. So very much to lose, but so very much to come home to as well. So very much to life for and fight for.

[merbytes]

Yes so about that comic — what are your plans for Hattie, anyway? Because of all HM characters he's really got an established 'fanon': he's a "grumpy old man" who still resents having been banished from the Mansion between 1969 and 2015, and most of all he *hates* Constance for having completely taken over "his" attic while he was gone.

Well actually The hatbox ghost that I’m working on won’t have too much dialogue per-say, and he is kind of like that mischievous character that goes around messing with messing with the other residents, namely, Constance.I actually had planned that of all the residents, that Hatbox ghost would want to mess with her the most by making his head disappear right before she was about to hatch away.(baddum -tiss)But as far as dialogue, he mostly cackles and saves talking for whenever things get serious, but even then he jokes and continues to ruffle everyones feathers.

[veneataur]

Prompt: Fever

Fandom: BBC’s The Musketeers

Title: The Frantic Search

Porthos holds back a sigh as Aramis makes another frantic lap around the living room. He’s lost count of the number of laps the younger man’s made this afternoon but he has grown more distressed with each. His clothes are wrinkled and sweaty, his face reddened with stress.

“Why haven’t they called,” Aramis says, wringing his hands. “What’s taking them so long?”

“They’ll call when they find something,” Porthos says calmly. “Now, sit down before you make yourself sicker.” Part of the reason Aramis wasn’t out with the others was that he’d stayed out the past few days and nights in the cold and snow searching for clues. It was only when he’d nearly passed out coughing that they were able to wrangle him indoors.

Porthos watches as Aramis makes another circuit, coughing, sneezing, wheezing as he paces. The brightly colorful Christmas tree and piles of neatly wrapped presents belie the worry and panic that has descended over the house for the last few nights. This visit to see one of Aramis’ sisters, the youngest, was a gift from him, Athos, d’Artagnan, Constance, and Treville. Once they’d found out that Aramis hadn’t seen Maria in five years, since he vanished one night after a bad PTSD episode, they had hatched this plan. Of course, they’d run it past Aramis before booking anything and while the man hadn’t jumped for joy, they could see the underlying excitement. That, and fear.

But now, Maria and her daughter, Olivia, were missing. They’d gone out of town, to Peoria, to do some Christmas shopping Friday afternoon when a freak snowstorm hit, causing blizzard conditions. With much of I74 from Peoria to Champaign littered with cars that had either spun out or ran into another, finding them hasn’t been easy. Police and state troopers are doing what they can, but Aramis and the others have decided not to wait. It means walking stretches of the snow-packed highway and snow peppered fields in fierce winds and bitter temperatures.

“Where could they have gone, Porthos? And why, why now? Why would God rip them away from me now? Because of Afghanistan? Because I got other parents,… uncles, aunts,… peoples’ kids… killed?” Aramis’ last words are punctuated with chest-rattling coughs.

“They’re fine, ‘Mis. Maria is smart, you’ve told me that. She’s used to this weather. She knows what to do. It just takes time.” Porthos keeps his voice steady, calm.

“I know, I know. But…”

“It’s not punishment, either.” Porthos stands and gently grabs Aramis as he makes a turn past him, pulling the younger man down to sit on the couch.

“But there has to be a reason,” Aramis mutters. He tries to fight off Porthos, but the effort leads him to cough. Porthos holds him as he works through the fit. Before he can fall back against the couch, spent from the fit, Porthos pulls him against him. He’s not chilled, but the warmth of Porthos is comforting.

“You are not being punished, Aramis. You weren’t at fault in Afghanistan. The navy cleared you of any wrongdoing. And you’re not at fault here. It was the weather. No one saw it coming.”

Aramis is silent for several moments and Porthos thinks he might have finally dozed off. He doesn’t know when the man has gotten anything more than a twenty-minute catnap.

“I can’t lose her, Porthos. We were best friends growing up and then, when she took me in, I nearly hurt Oliva and vanished without an explanation. She thought I was dead, Porthos. For five years, I never told her I was okay. I never came to see her. And she welcomes me back with open arms. Like I’ve done nothing wrong.” Aramis might be crying or it might be the congestion. Porthos isn’t sure but he suspects it’s the former.

“Five years is a long time, but remember Aramis, part of that was you getting yourself back to being functional. That first year you could’ve never dealt with your family, not with everything else you had going on.”

“But I should’ve called sooner.” Aramis sniffs loudly and Porthos reaches for a box of Kleenex. Aramis takes a few to use.

“Yeah, you should’ve called sooner but you’re human as much as you’d like to deny it. You weren’t ready yet.”

Aramis gives a wet snort.

“Took you guys to get me down here. I didn’t even have the courage to come down myself.”

“You could’ve said no.” Porthos shrugs his shoulders, leaning back against the couch. He settles Aramis down so that his head is lying in his lap.

“Didn’t occur to me to do that.”

“You just needed some support and that’s what are friends for.”

“And searching for my sister and niece, apparently. Which is where I should be.” Aramis gets back to his feet suddenly and Porthos just manages to hold back a curse. He nearly had the man settled.

“We’ve gone over this, you can’t be out there. You’re already sick. The cold air and wind is only going to make it worse. Do you have any common sense or did that head wound knock it all out of you? What do you think it’d do to them to know that you died looking for them,” Porthos nearly shouts. Aramis’ look of shock makes him regret the tone and words but he couldn’t help it. He’s frustrated by Aramis’ desire to go back out and the weather that is making it impossible to easily resolve this situation.

Aramis’ mouth opens and closes a few times then he walks away, out of the living room. Porthos follows him and sees him getting suited up again, coughing and wheezing with each movement.

“You can’t go out there. How’re you going to get out to the search site? You don’t have a car to drive.” Porthos’ voice is rising without his permission.

“I’ll walk then,” Aramis snaps back, tying his shoelace tight.

“You’re going to freeze out there and then how will we find you to rescue you.” Porthos can’t help the accusatory tone.

“Don’t worry about it. You can find me in the spring thaw seeing as how I’m going to die out there because I have no common sense,” Aramis spits back. He’s pulling on his jacket now, zipping up the lighter jacket tucked inside to provide extra warmth. It’s then that the door opens with a cacophony of noise.

Everyone, his friends, his brother-in-law, everyone who went out to search streams back in. Though Aramis is dazed by the sudden commotion, he doesn’t miss Maria or Oliva, happy, healthy, alive.

He pushes his way through to them, hugging them tightly, giving each a kiss on their forehead, and then hugging them again. He doesn’t let go, not even when Athos pushes them further in so he can close the door.

“What’s going on? What’s Aramis dressed up to go out again,” Athos asks.

“He was getting worried. Thought you guys might’ve needed some help looking,” Porthos answers, voice uncharacteristically even.

“How was he coming? Walking?”

“We were just discussing that.” Porthos gives Aramis a look, which the man misses.

Athos looks between the two men. Something happened and while it needs to be resolved it’s been overshadowed by the sibling reunion.

“Where were you? We’ve been looking for days,” Aramis asks once he pulls himself away.

“I managed to get us off the interstate safely but we were on a country road with nothing but a farmhouse in sight and the car was dead, both gas and battery. The couple was happy to welcome us into their home for a few days until we could get help,” Maria explains.

“And they had no power,” Oliva says. “They sure had a lot of candles, though.”

“I’m sorry that we worried you. Athos says you’ve been a nervous wreck.”

Aramis drops his head, remembering his anger at Porthos. He wasn’t ready to forgive the man, but the sight of his sister and niece back home was enough to put it to the back burner for a while.

“I couldn’t bear to lose my little sister or my favorite niece,” Aramis says with a smile and hugs them both again. Slowly and with a lot of prodding Athos and Constance convince the three to take off their coats and boots and sit in the living room in front of the fire that d’Artagnan got going. Porthos hands each a mug of hot chocolate.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly after he hands Aramis his mug. “I said things I shouldn’t’ve. I was just worried about losing you out in this weather. I couldn’t bear that.”

“I’m sorry, too. I wasn’t thinking about anything except them. I’d die for them, for any of you. You all mean more to me than anything.”

“I know, but we’d much rather have you alive and annoying us like a little brother than dead.”

Aramis chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. He recognizes it as Porthos’ recipe, the one his mother taught him.

“I will try to keep that in mind.”

“That’s all I ask. Now drink that, then you need to get some sleep. You have a cold to get over.”

Aramis doesn’t protest. Instead, he smiles, looking around at his family, the ones by blood and by choice and finds he is grateful for each one of them. He understands Porthos’ plea but it’s not an easy task. There’s not a single one in this room he wouldn’t lay himself down for.

A/N: These prompts are getting harder as the month goes on. I think I’m getting brain drain from all of this writing and thinking of new plots. This one didn’t go as expected and there might be some revision on it in the future. For some reason, Porthos and Aramis like to get into arguments when I write them. I don’t know why. Anyway, the towns mentioned in here are real. I grew up in the region I’ve set this modern ‘verse in, so it’s rather fun to put these characters in such familiar settings. And I’ve been in a snowstorm like the one mentioned in here, on the same interstate. It really was a freak snowstorm.